GEORGIA ANGELIS

Black Lace novels are sexual fantasies.
In real life, make sure you practise safe sex.
First published in 1995 by
Black Lace
332 Ladbroke Grove
London
W10 5AH
Copyright © Georgia Angelis 1995
Typeset by CentraCet Limited, Cambridge Printed and bound by Cox & Wyman Ltd, Reading, Berks
ISBN 0 352 33004 X
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Chapter One

Sir Horace strode the upper passageway, pausing as he passed the open doorway to the linen cupboard. A wicked grin settled upon his plump face and he stepped back, eyes riveted upon the laundrymaid, Mags.
She spotted him immediately in the doorway, adjusting his wig, and blocking her daylight. Instantly she felt trapped within the windowless room. She frowned and automatically began to mouth her excuses, though she knew they'd do her little good; not once Horace got that look in his eye.
'I'm real busy. The mistress be expecting me in the bedchamber directly. I'll be missed. We'll be caught' she said.
If anything, his grin broadened. He obviously found the thought of being caught in the act terribly exciting. He stepped into the cupboard and shut the door. 'Just a minute or so, my lovely, that's all I be a-asking,' he said wheedlingly.
She shook her head, trying to get past him, but her arms were full of bedsheets and counterpanes, bolster covers and white lawn nightgowns. He grabbed her. She'd known he would. She struggled and protested, making her usual noises of annoyance, then gave herself

up to his lust with an exaggerated snort of exasperation. He was irksome, yet so irresistible.
He relieved her of the linen pile, threw it down carelessly, and grappled with her in the deep shadows of the enclosed room. Her breasts - forced high by her boned stomacher - rose invitingly, like two plump fruits. He fumbled with them, circling the nipples with his tongue and drawing the buds into his mouth. Mags shivered and groaned, then began to unknot the laces at the front of his knee breeches. They didn't have long. It would be moments rather than minutes before she was missed and Betty Heatherbanks, the housekeeper, came looking for her.
'Quick,' she gasped. 'Get on with it.'
Horace was out of his breeches now, his tool hard, wagging and ever-ready, its length as smooth as marble. He fumbled under Mags's skirts and found her ripeness, all juicy with wanton longing. She'd never refused him yet. Her customary shows of reluctance were always short-lived, and done, he felt, for form's sake.
She bent over, bracing herself against the shelves piled high with snowy laundry which shone quite luminously in the half-light. He reached for her. He felt her large backside, all round and dimpling soft, then traced the crack running between. He dipped a finger into her wetness to moisten the fat head of his member, then pushed delightedly into her. Together they let out grunts of pleasure, low and secretive.
Hot and sweaty, his loins slapped noisily against her rear, his meaty length burying deep; pulling out, and thrusting in again. Speedily he raced towards his goal, his hands on her hips, keeping Mags steady to meet his full thrusts, his cods bouncing against her sex lips.
She tightened around his length reflexively, squeezing him, then pushing back against him, taking him greedily until his onslaught made her cry out and she came; her haunches quivering, her depths milking him. He muffled his cries of passion in her hair.
For several seconds they stayed still, joined. Their

intimate anatomical points pulsed in unison with delayed waves of pleasure. Then, practically and guiltily, they pulled apart, he to replace his breeches, she to adjust her bodice and smooth down the skirts.
'Not a word' he warned her, slipping out of the door, winking.
'Not a word' she promised, retrieving the laundry from the floor.
Hurrying into the bedchamber with her burden, Mags met a frowning Betty.
'Where you been girl? I was just about t'come looking.'
Mags looked apologetic, shook out a sheet hastily and avanced on the stripped-down bed. 'The master did delay me again. I'm sorry.'
Betty's mouth thinned with disapproval, her eyes rolling eloquently as she commiserated. 'I understand.'
And indeed she did. Everyone at the manor knew of Sir Horace's indiscriminate liking for his female servants. Barely a one had escaped his roving eye. There was only one exception, so they remarked often and mirthfully in the servant's domain, and she was the copper cleaner, Rebecca, in the scullery. A curve-spined, fuzzy-haired, rotten-toothed old harpy. Though, said some wickedly, if a drunken Horace were to stumble upon her in the dark maybe even she would have to look out for her virtue!
Munsey Manor had been constructed in the late mediaeval period. The Balfours, Horace's family, were sheep farmers who had made good. Their modest acres in the Cotswolds had been suitable for little save sheep grazing, but after the decimating Black Death the wool trade had flourished. Gloucestershire had become a wealthy area and the Balfours became wool merchants as well as herders. Horace's forebears had bought up more land, breeding more and better stock and family fortunes had soared. The manor had grown bigger and rooms had been added. Gables pointing to heaven and honey stone mullions had been set into old castellated walls in

deference to late-Jacobean style. Munsey Manor was a beautiful house, the most remarkable building in the whole of the palely beautiful village from which it had taken its name.
For decades it remained such. But, in the first quarter of the eighteenth century, another wealthy family had taken up residence in the village. The Lawley-Lovelocks represented new money and trade. They built a house on grand but simple lines in the style of Wren. The builder's son was set up as squire. There was no referendum, it just sort of happened. Horace could never understand why. What was popularity compared to centuries-old tradition? The Balfours had been around simply for ever. Giles de Balfour had fought with Harry at Agincourt; Ambrose de Balfour had been with John Lackland when his unfortunate liegelord's crown jewels had been lost in the Wash!
Horace Balfour greatly resented that which he saw as his community's betrayal. They'd chosen an outsider in preference to himself; and that rankled. He never once stopped to think that their preference for the gentlemanly and Christian Thomas Lawley-Lovelock, might have something to do with his own shortcomings. The fact that he'd seduced just about every daughter (and very often the wife too) of every family within a ten-mile radius never entered his head. Horace was quite oblivious to the animosity he caused within the hearts of moral men.
Her dress was of inky black wool trimmed, at squared neck and tight-fitting cuffs, with black velvet. The stomacher that drew in her waist and forced up her breasts was fastened with bows of scarlet satin. Catherine Balfour was a pious woman. Indeed religion seemed just about the only thing in her life of late; that and worry.
She strove to find comfort in God. Not always successfully. And she worried about her husband: about his rakehell habits and his spendthrift lifestyle. She feared

that one way or another he would, ultimately, bring shame, ruin or both upon their family, forever besmirching the name of Balfour.
Catherine strode out across the meadow before the old manor house. The rotund and woolly sheep scattered, bleating hysterically before her. She liked walking fast, making herself breathless; it expended energy and lessened her temper. She was a lady and could not be seen to possess the latter. Ladies were genteel. They did not fume, rant and rave or stamp their foot in open vexation. Not even when they were bound to a man such as Horace.
She was angry. She always seemed to be so of late. Angry at life, at Horace, and at herself for continually putting up with her present lot. Sometimes she wanted so much to rebel, to do something. Take a stand. But her local priest made her see reason. She had to maintain her dignity, remember her duty. She would gain nothing by rebellion. She was Lady Balfour. She had three children, a home, and a position within the community. She was respected and liked.
Surely, the priest had constantly to persuade her, those things outweighed an unsatisfactory husband? Usually she agreed with him, but there were times, sometimes more times than she'd have cared to admit, that she longed to be as careless and reckless, indeed as licentious as the infuriating Horace. She wanted to say, To hell with what people think,' just like him.
She strode on, tears pricking her eyes. Being humiliated day after day got no easier despite the number of years she had endured it. Once, she had dismissed any female servant she suspected of having intimate relations with her husband. But there had been such an endless stream of them that eventually she had given up. Besides, she had come to realise that she was doing him a service by forever bringing fresh young females into the manor house to act as scullery, kitchen and housemaids. The hurt of her husband's infidelities lessened, but not the humiliation or lack of self-esteem.
The church lay on the edge of the Balfour land,

adjacent to the village. She went there often, not just on Sundays like her husband and offspring. The Reverend Jacob Roberts seemed the only person she could talk to. Confide in. He seemed to understand and showed sympathy.
She lifted her skirts and crisp lawn petticoats, to reveal her trim ankles in embroidered stockings and her small feet in silver-buckled, black leather shoes. With difficulty she climbed the wooden stile out of the sheep pasture.
Men are devils, she thought, for the umpteenth time that day since catching Horace with the dairymaid. The man had no shame. As bold as brass he'd been taking his pleasure with the girl against the cold, tiled wall of the dairy. Anyone might have walked in upon them -the children, the servants. It just so happened that on this particular occasion it had been Catherine herself, who had gone there to skim the cream off the separating pans for the day's tea.
Quickly she'd retreated unseen, the scorching heat of angry betrayal coursing upwards from her breasts to her face and brain. Momentarily she'd thought she might have a brainstorm, so overwhelming was her emotion. She might launch herself at them and do murder at the very least. But her code of genteel behaviour was too inbred and forbade it. No, she'd slunk away, almost as if guilty at having spied her rotten husband thus occupying his time.
The image of them was branded on her mind. Horace with his breeches dangling down about his stocking tops, his legs rigid and his buttocks clenched, as he thrust up into the softly giggling dairymaid. The girl was grinning and her face was rosy. Her arms were around Horace's neck, her legs around his waist. Ankles crossed.
Devil!
In the fields the army of labourers watched her go by. They nudged each other as they leaned upon their shovels and picks. Catherine Balfour, stomping madly

through their midst, face stony, eyes never seeing them, was a frequent and welcomed diversion.
Not only was Horace making a continuous fool of her, she thought bitterly, but he seemed hell bent on beggaring her and theirs as well.
Horace was a man of high ideas and grand schemes. The sight of Lawley-Lovelock's country house on the adjoining land had been like a boil on his backside that wouldn't heal. It had festered and festered, giving him no peace of mind until, at length, he had decided to build himself. To outdo his neighbour. Catherine, despite her many misgivings, was unable to dissuade him.
Architects had arrived, been consulted, and were hired. They in turn hired builders and engineers, who hired masons, carpenters and landscape gardeners. Munsey Hall - neo-classical in design, constructed from the local honeyed limestone so characteristic of the Cotswolds - began to rise from the lower pasturelands cleared of sheep.
The encompassing landscape changed. Jacobean knot gardens and Dutch-influenced William and Mary ornamental canals disappeared beneath purposeful shovels. The scene was gentled, grassed. Trees were planted, whilst others were cleared to afford the new hall breathtaking vistas. The local river was diverted and a sizeable lake dug out by an army of men with shovels and horse-drawn carts. They transported the excavated soil to a designated point where the garden's architect - working very much in the free flowing, romanticised style of Lancelot 'Capability' Brown - had decided to build a grotto.
Completion of the house and grounds seemed a very long way off, even nightmarishly distant, to the anxious Catherine, who had made it her business to find out how much each man was being paid by the hour. She'd tried to voice her worries to Horace, but he had only pooh-poohed them, patting her on the head and telling her not

to worry herself; that a woman's brain was never meant to deal with such intricacies. But worry she did, increasingly.
'A handsome woman, ain't she?' remarked one man, pausing in his filling of a wheelbarrow with autumn-heavy clods of soil.
'Aye' breathed another, leering. 'And a fine body, I'd wager, beneath all that drab finery she do constantly wear.'
'Lovely bubs.'
'Aye. Indeed. Wouldn't I like t'nestle me head there and suckle,' enthused another, ogling the breasts that wobbled very slightly as Catherine traversed the uneven ground.
The men couldn't take their eyes off those pale, soft mounds rising up from her constricting bodice, some rubbing hands longingly over the growing bulges in their coarse spun breeches.
'What I wouldn't like t'do t'her,' said a guttural voice.
'What?'
'I should like t'follow her into the copse and tumble her-'
'Aye?'
' - on her back. 'Ould free them bubs and suck and suck until she was a-moaning and a-groaning and a-begging me t'love her -'
'Go on.' All work around the imaginative man had ceased as his workmates listened, fired up, eyes overbright.
"Then I should pull up her skirts, spread her lovely pale legs and lick her cunt. Lick it, slip into it and make her cry out over and over until she were delirious like. Then, and only then, 'ould she get a taste of this - ' he said boastfully, grabbing his excited girth through his breeches ' - where she do most need it.'
They all laughed slyly at the thought. They could well imagine themselves doing something similar with the distracted and lovely Catherine.

'Enough,' shouted their foreman, striding up with a scowl. 'You're not paid t'lean on your shovels. Get back to work.'
Beneath their breaths they muttered and grumbled but did as ordered, none of them caring to risk having their pay docked. To a man they watched her neat figure disappear into the aforementioned copse, each mind then indulging in its own sexual scenario.
Catherine had no inkling of the thoughts she unwittingly provoked in men. She did not think herself special at all. Horace had long since grown bored with her, preferring to find his pleasure elsewhere and, accordingly, his wife had presumed that it was because she was in some major way lacking, or had lost her allure.
She trudged on, slower now that her anger had waned, coining at last to the church of St Barnabus. The Reverend Roberts was there, awaiting her arrival.
He came forward, brows creasing at her stony face and troubled eyes. Tears were not far away, he could tell.
'Lady Catherine, why so glum and dejected?'
She placed her hands in his, glad of the comforting squeeze.
"Tis the same old story: another female and my husband messing right under my nose. Oh, how I wish I were immune to such wretchedness.'
'Poor lady, sweet lady. Come and sit. Pour out your heart,' said the showily concerned Jacob, his eyes riveted to those famous breasts. She was so prim, so deliberately unalluring, and yet she acted as an enticement to all men save her fool of a husband. Jacob Roberts despised him with a passion. Had he such a wife he'd have loved her every night, and in the daytime too when the press of parish work permitted. Were she his, she'd never have been so neglected.
Catherine was not over tall, but robust of frame. Her skin was pale and soft and her figure rounded after three children. Those luscious breasts were full and ripe. Her

tawny hair she wore back in an uncomplicated bun at her crown, a practical knot of hair adorned by a swal-low's-tail of lace, as was the fashion. On her forehead were two kiss curls. Dangling from her ears were baroque pearls and, tight about her throat, a single strand of well-matched pearls that stole the heat from her flesh and glowed mellowly white-grey-cream.
Her eyes were silver-grey, her nose straight and a touch Roman, her mouth small and bud pink. Men thought of kissing when they looked at that mouth; thought, too, of it drawing in, between puckered lips, a length of heat-lusted penis. Jacob was thinking just the very thing now as he led Catherine to her family pew and sat beside her, holding her hands. He prayed she didn't notice how clammy his fingers had suddenly become.
"They were in the dairy,' she was saying, 'doing it against the wall. Doing it where any might see them.'
'Shameless. Disgraceful,' opined Jacob, thinking of that place between Catherine's legs.
How easy it would have been - if only she'd been willing - to kneel between those blessed thighs and fondle the object of his secret desire. How easy to have unlaced his breeches and slipped his turgid length up into her, taking Catherine on his knees, paying almost spiritual homage while he loved her as he longed to. Such base thoughts were sacrilegeous, Jacob knew, in God's house. But he hadn't been able to think of God for months now, not since Lady Catherine had become the object of his obsessive desire. Nothing mattered any more. His brains seemed to have descended to his dick. When he spouted doctrine it was automatic, well-learnt phrases which spilled out of his mouth. He had learnt them well; they no longer meant anything to him though. He was falling from grace and he knew it. What's more, he hadn't a care. Least ways not when he was with her. At night it was different though, when he lay alone, tormented by thoughts of her, wanting her, knowing he shouldn't. Knowing that she was married, above him;

that it was wrong, as wrong as that which Horace did so habitually. Then he cried out to the Almighty for guidance, yet knew he'd get none. No one could help him. This he had to resolve alone.
Take strength from your faith, Lady Catherine, and let us pray together,' decided Jacob, fervently squeezing her hands in a passion, until Catherine visibly winced.
For a while Catherine found comfort in prayer. They even sang a hymn together. Then the Reverend Jacob mounted his pulpit, opened the Good Book and began to recite chapter and verse, his eyes gazing down upon her with hard to conceal lust, his left hand stroking the turgid girth of his member.
She listened intently, fully absorbed, wide-eyed and so sweetly innocent. Sometimes she nodded, appreciating the wisdom of the text. Other times she was soberly thoughtful, her mouth pouting lusciously.
Jacob eased his hand down his breeches and encircled his marble-hard flesh, stroking himself to greater excitement. His furtive self-pleasuring was concealed by the dark Jacobean oak of the carved pulpit frontage. Soon he was out of control, his voice croaking as he tried to continue with his lesson.
Catherine quirked an eyebrow at him.
The timbre of the voice changed. Indeed he began almost to squeak. Then his complexion heightened, cheeks reddening. His body jerked and trembled; so did the words.
'Reverend?' Catherine was anxious. He looked almost as if taken with some heart-related seizure. 'Reverend?' she said again, with greater urgency. She got to her feet, uncertain of what to do, whether she should hurry to him and offer assistance.
His final outburst of words were a garbled, high-pitched ejaculation that mirrored exactly the state of affairs in his breeches. He breathed and groaned as if about to expire and then fearfully and guiltily, as he regained his sanity and saw Lady Catherine sidling anxiously out of her pew, he cleared his throat and

smiled down at her reassuringly. 'Here endeth the lesson.'
She paused and sighed, perceiving a false alarm, and was relieved.
The following Sunday the Balfours went to church as usual, putting on a show of family unity for the community. Horace took Catherine by the arm. It was their closest weekly contact. Behind them trooped their family and behind the family, the servants. They quarter-filled the modest church.
The Reverend Roberts was an increasingly agitated man. Even with a full congregation he couldn't keep his mind off Lady Catherine. More than once he went into a kind of daze, and lost his hold upon proceedings, leading Horace to mutter out the side of his mouth, unimpressed, that the airy fairy parson had his head up in the celestial clouds again, by gad. Anyone who preached hellfire and damnation was not going to come out on top of his list of favourite people.
Catherine worried fondly about the cleric. Mayhap he was having some crisis of faith. It did seem the most likely cause for his recent odd behaviour. As a friend, and wanting to help in whatever way she could, Catherine sought him out later that week at the vicarage.
He opened his arched front door, his drawn face lighting up at the sight of her. His clothes were crumpled and his starched collar was all askew. There was a smell of wine about him; he was definitely a man with a problem.
He all but grabbed the lady by the arm and dragged her into his parlour.
'Dear lady Catherine. Tis heartening to see you ... Will you take tea? I keep a meagre supply by me for special occasions.'
'Please, go to no trouble. I came to see you. I am worried. Of late you seem so ... so agitated, your mind is so little on your vocation.'
Tea is no trouble, lady. Agitated? Aye, I must own

that I be so. Who would not be, seeing you day after day ... feeling as I do about you ...?'
He had taken hold of Catherine's hands and was squeezing them painfully tight. She stared at them, then at him, and blinked.
'Sir?'
'Madam, I love you, adore you. I would worship at your feet. Beneath your skirts! I burn for you. Burn. With a fire far brighter man the molten pits of hell' confessed Jacob in a passionate gush.
Catherine's eyes grew round and unblinking. She struggled in a panic to wrest her hands from his. 'Sir, are you quite mad?' The skin of her neck prickled in abject embarrassment.
'Yes, yes! Mad with love for you, with desire, madam. I must have you or lose my mind. I am in torment' he groaned, going down on his knees at her feet. He let go her hands and clasped Catherine about the ankles instead, paying his demented homage. She struggled and lost her balance. With a small cry she tottered backwards, arms flailing.
Jacob came forward on his knees, hugging her, yet keeping her captive, searching for the hems of her many starched petticoats.
'Sir!' Her voice was an hysterical shriek. 'Get off me this instant!'
But Jacob was beyond reason. In all likelihood he couldn't even hear her now. He had only one thing on his mind and was struggling to keep Catherine still and unlace his breeches. It was difficult, to say the least.
Unlaced, he sprang forth marble-hard and fully aroused. The blade was of modest length but substantial girth. Catherine couldn't believe her eyes or his effrontery.
She mustered all her strength and pushed the would-be ravisher off, scrambling to her feet and delivering two resounding slaps to his cheeks.
He yelped, palms flying to his stinging cheeks, tears welling in his eyes.

He looked sad and pathetic. Catherine stood staring down at him in a rage, her little hands balled into fists. She was angry and confused. Part of her even felt sorry for him and wanted to offer comfort by drawing that fair head in to nestle at her breasts. She wisely fought down the instinct and fled instead, mounting the mare she'd left tethered at the vicarage gate and spurring the rotund creature to as much of a gallop as she was capable of producing. She could hear the vicar calling behind her.
She felt a little hysterical and rode wildly for a while. Finally she allowed the animal to slow. She fended off the overhanging branches of the beech trees in the estate copse with her riding crop, and when her fear and panic had lessened, she reined in the mare and dismounted.
The copse was dense and dark. The floor was covered with ferns and brambles that grasped, as if living and malevolent, at her paniered skirts. Sprouting from tree-trunks and the leaf-litter underfoot, were the last of the season's edible fungi. The remaining blackberries were fully ripe and luscious looking. Catherine led the horse idly and picked them, selecting only the perfect fruits.
God, what a to do! Whatever had possessed the Reverend? He had always seemed so level-headed. He loved her? Was he mad? He must be. Men didn't desire her. She had no allure. Of course she didn't. If she had then Horace wouldn't have been so dissatisfied with her, forever overlooking her in favour of his female servants. No, she wasn't desirable, had never felt such. Not since her marriage anyhow. Jacob must be sick; he must have succumbed to some temporary brain fever. He'd be alright given time. In the meantime Catherine would avoid him. She would conveniently have a cold that necessitated her absence from church for a week or two. Yes. By then the whole unfortunate episode would surely have blown over. She must never, never be alone with the vicar again. No. And she had better not tell Horace. That would likely only get the unfortunate Jacob into more serious trouble.
She sighed, perturbed, and walked on, tugging at her

tangled skirts. Thorns caught and material tore. She tethered the horse and wandered on, wishing that the Reverend Roberts had kept a better hold of his emotions. This was an unwelcome complication on top of all her other worries. And, she felt the more keenly, she had lost her confidant. Who would she talk to now?
She sat on the smooth-barked trunk of a felled beech tree and sucked a blackberry.
Sex. What a nuisance it was! What problems it continually caused. There was much to be said in favour of the non-secular life of a nun, Catherine decided wryly.
The woodman's cottage stood in the clearing beyond the copse. It was an ill-repaired hovel, its thatched roof green with mould and blown away in places; its single chimney spouting a feeble trickle of smoke from the dwelling's cooking fire. Beside the cottage, within an enclosure made of withy hurdles, were two donkeys. One of them began to bray jarringly.
Catherine's mouth twisted at the noise and she watched them idly, her eyebrows raising as the male mounted the female; a great length of equine phallus slipping in between hind quarters where the female's tail was accommodatingly raised.
Catherine blushed but didn't look away. The mounted donkey didn't seem to take exception to the huge proportions of her mate at all and was, of course, built to accept such. In her depths Catherine felt her muscles tightening and relaxing in waves, her palms turning clammy. She stood up, disturbed, thinking to return to her mare, but then paused as she saw the woodman and his wife come out of their front door.
They too stood and watched the beasts coupling, the male donkey braying ecstatically. They nudged each other, beamed lascivious smiles and proceeded forthwith to imitate their livestock.
The woodman dropped his breeches, throwing aside his leather belt. His wife knelt and braced herself at his chopping block, skirts pulled up around her middle. She was a large woman. Her soft belly cushioned her while

her arse was in the air and her legs set wide. All her intimate charms were on display - from her tight bottom, to her furred cranny with its feminine delights.
The woodman came onto his knees and squeezed the globes of his wife's buttocks then stroked her secret haven from front to back, crudely, purposefully. It was not to be a tender union; they joined like the animals they watched, his fat length pushing into her, stretching her, withdrawing in all its hot, hard glory, then thrusting in again. The male donkey was done, coming down onto all fours, the collossal thing between its back legs hanging limply, glistening.
The grunting woodman caught his wife about the waist and pumped at her rear, taking her with measured, instinctive lust. It was a base need quickly satisfied. He gritted his teeth as he came and then, after a moment to savour such a transient thrill, he got to his feet, reclaimed his belt and began to buckle up. His wife tidied her skirts. Then together they fetched hay to feed the donkeys.
Thoroughly disturbed now, Catherine rode for home. The whole world seemed to be at it!
Chapter Two

 The labourers sat silently. Intent. Working for the Balfours was never dull. Lady Catherine went amongst them like some beautiful, haughty virago. Sir Horace prowled his estate like a rampant billy goat, forever on the lookout for something unsuspecting and feminine to jump. Today, pausing wearily at midday to eat, the temporary workforce carrying out the ambitious excavations in the grounds, was appreciatively entertained.
From their workplace on the north hills, where they were planting elms to a precise pattern determined by the landscape's architect, the men could see clearly down into the walled garden of the old manor house.
Within the enclosed space, running the length of the grassy path that dissected the potato patch and rows of carrots and leeks, ran a washing line. A full-bodied laundrymaid hung out the washing. She was red-faced from being in close proximity to the cotton-boiling tub all morning. Her ample breasts and arms gleamed with sweat. Her skimpy work blouse clung wetly to her, nipples jutting.
The men watched her as they ate their meagre fare: cold sausage and coarse-grained bread; cheese, onions and potato tarts; meat pasties made from poached hare

and turnips. The sight of the buxom wench made the food go down well. They began nudging each other and making ribald remarks along the same lines as the other day when Lady Catherine had swept past them. They'd like to fuck her, show her how a real man could bring a smile to her sulky face. They were uncouth and they were consistent.
Then they noticed Sir Horace saunter down the grassy path in the walled garden. He had shut and locked the gate behind him, and the workforce surmised that the woman was indeed about to have herself a man, whether she wanted him or not.
They paused in their eating, their mouths falling open, and morsels falling out of the gobs of the messier eaters.
The girl saw Sir Horace and looked immediately alarmed. The wooden peg missed the clothes line completely as she jabbed, trying to secure one of Lady Catherine's lace-edged aprons there.
She backed off, looking desperately for an escape route. But, of course, there wasn't one. If there had been it likely wouldn't have done her much good. If one wanted to keep one's job one didn't refuse the master of the house. Nor his son either. There was a kind of resignation to that fact amongst the women of the household and nearby community of Munsey. Balfour's bastard offspring were all over the surrounding countryside and little stigma was attached to the mothers of the children. They were looked upon as unfortunate casualties, much like the victims of war or some disaster or other that was quite beyond their control. Their very numerousness made them unremarkable.
The laundrymaid had little enthusiasm for flight. Evidently Horace had paid her attention more than once before. Her eyebrows knit in a scowl and though she was less than welcoming, she did nothing blatantly to thwart him.
He caught her about the waist and then pulled her back against himself, and his heated, hard member.

She grumbled, knocking into a wheelbarrow leaden with freshly dug parsnips.
He drew her through the door of the greenhouse where the orange trees and grapevines stood looking chilled and denuded in the autumn greyness.
The men on the hill watched engrossed, leaning forward, absently shushing their foreman when he strode amongst them, insisting it was time for them to be back at work. But when he'd followed their gaze and caught sight of Sir Horace fumbling with the wench's clothing in the greenhouse, he too fell silent and began watching.
She was not a cooperative girl. She didn't actually refuse his advances but then again she did nothing to assist him. Probably, she thought it too chilly for such outside romping.
Her skirt soon lay on the floor in a pool of deep brown homespun. Her blouse had been pulled well off her shoulders, her marvellous breasts spilling forward over her restrictive stomacher. Sir Horace was intoxicated by the sight of them. Head swooping, his mouth fastened upon nipples chilled to hardness by such bracing outdoor activity.
She wrestled with him a little, letting him know that she wasn't best pleased and he frowned, pushing her back against a potting bench and pressing himself hard against her. His breeches came down, and the watchers saw his pale buttocks clench as he thrust himself at the girl and took possession of her. Though she struggled, he kept her still by grabbing her with a steely grip at the shoulders, looking only mildly annoyed when she moved her head from side to side, to avoid his attempted kisses.
Seconds later her knees weakened, her body sagged, and together they slid to the floor. Bodies entwined, his thrusting shaft then buried itself ultra deep, locked possessively within her.
She looked childishly belligerent, and groped for then grabbed a large parsnip, which the under-gardener had scrubbed ready for the manor kitchens and, as Horace

pumped at her contentedly on the uncomfortable floor of the greenhouse, she pushed the generous vegetable none too gently up his arse. He reared with shock, then slapped her for her effrontery. Then he took her coldly, greatly riled by the incident.
Their bodies writhed and rolled out of sight and the labourers stood up vainly trying to see them still, to no avail. They looked at each other with incredulous smirks.
'Well, well, what did y'think of that?' said one of them, impressed.
'Have t'take your hat off t'her, don't you. She sure knew how t'put him off his stroke for a moment or two.'
There was much nodding and musing of the admiring variety. Several of them were laughing.
'Let's make the most of the light now,' urged the foreman, hot under the collar. 'Back t'work with you.'
The men worked silently, engrossed in their lascivious thoughts.
'Dearest father,' wheedled Miss Sophie, 'there are the most exquisite pair of earrings at the Gloucester jewellers. I simply must have them.'
He shot her a look down the length of the highly polished dining table. It was mahogany, newly fashionable and taking over in popularity from the more common walnut. Mahogany had been brought back in British merchant ships firstly as ballast. Trinkets were taken to Africa to trade for slaves on the West Coast; the slaves were taken to the American colonies or the West Indies and traded for tobacco, coffee or molasses; such comparatively lightweight commodities needed balllast to stabilise the ships and so mahogany was used. It was plentiful, and grew like a giant weed in its native habitat. Only now were cabinet-makers coming to appreciate the dark red beauty of the wood and using it in preference to their native oaks and walnuts. To have mahogany furniture was to be fashionably modern, a trend-setter. Horace liked to think of himself as such.
'Earrings you say?' He frowned, carving the roast beef,

placing three generous slices on each Chelsea porcelain plate. He handed them to his son Ralph, who passed them in turn to his mama. The plate progressed by hand right around the table until it reached its final resting place in front of 'uncle' Harold, Horace's adopted brother who was visiting Munsey Manor. Although not blood relatives, familiarity had resulted in a shared personality and they were like two peas in a pod. Harold's philandering ways were common knowledge and the housemaids groaned whenever his carriage rumbled up the gravel drive.
'Have you not enough earrings already?'
'I have none so exquisite, father. They are perfect ... like two tears.'
'Really, Sophie,' cautioned Catherine. 'We cannot bear the expense. You have fine pearl earrings already. Your grandmother bequeathed you several pairs.'
Sophie's lips compressed and her eyebrows drew together thunderously above the darkest brown eyes. 'But I want them. They would suit me so well. Father ...?'
Her plaintive calling upon her father made Catherine bristle. She truly detested her daughter when she was at her wheedling, whining worst. Why did men fall for such displays of feminine manipulation? To Catherine, Sophie was so transparent. Yet to Horace and Harold, who were watching her, smiling, charmed, she was a delight who couldn't possibly be denied.
'How much are these earrings?' Horace wanted to know.
Sophie gave a small triumphant smile. 'Eight guineas.'
"Then I'll buy them for you, m'dear,' offered Harold, beating his brother to it. 'It will be my pleasure.'
Ralph sniggered, intercepting the lustful spark of understanding that passed between uncle and niece.
Sophie raised her chin, and slanted Harold a look from under sooty eyelashes. "Thank you, uncle,' she purred. 'You are most generous. I am your grateful and obedient servant.'

'Glad t'hear it,' said Harold, his gaze flickering from her mouth to the swell of her breasts above her tightly corseted bodice.
Catherine frowned and passed on another plate of beef to her youngest daughter, Frances.
Frances was present but hardly with them at all. She had been reading romantic poetry all morning and now her head was full of it; flowery lines coming back to mind, and causing her to sigh. The conversation at table went completely over her head.
One course passed after another, the men talking about hunting, cockfighting and fowling guns, Sophie talking about clothes and music.
Catherine worried about Sophie; it seemed she had lost control of this daughter. It didn't help that Horace and Harold seemed determined to indulge her every whim. The girl was spoilt, that was the truth of it.
Catherine ate slowly and stared out through the mul-lioned window of the manor's dining room. It was a modest room, cosy and wainscoted. A roaring fire in the hearth cheered the homey decor. How different was to be the dining room in Munsey Hall. This table seated a dozen; the new one had been ordered with eight extra leaves, enabling the Balfours to entertain no less than forty-two at one sitting, should they so wish. The very thought of it intimidated Catherine.
She felt so anxious lately. Everything was a worry. There was Horace and his extravagance. The Reverend Roberts and his uncalled for advances. Sophie and her questionable morals. Ralph and his. The only one who caused her no real anxiety was the demure, almost ethereal Frances. She, apparently, was an angel. An angel in a house full of imps and devils. How long could her innocence last? Catherine would have to look out for her. Sophie, on the other hand, was beyond saving. She had always been the wanton, a female with an eye for the main chance. Yes, Catherine wanted for Frances all that had eluded her in life: love, happiness, luck.
Love. The food tasted like sawdust in her mouth

suddenly. Bitterness rose. Oh how she'd wanted love. But she'd got Horace instead. Horace who desired all women but loved none. Horace who was probably only capable of loving himself.
Catherine made herself think of more pleasant things. She thought of her afternoon yesterday, of the men at the riverside. Her despondency lifted and her breathing became erratic as she remembered.
How handsome were the men working for her husband! She wondered why she had never noticed before. Of course one was not supposed to take any great interest in male workers. It wasn't quite proper. It was the first time she had ever witnessed the lower classes at their ablutions. And very interesting it was, too.
At the end of the day, as the light failed, the men had laid down their picks, shovels and wheelbarrows and converged upon the riverside where the waters now filtered into the newly finished ornamental lake.
Catherine had stumbled upon the scene by chance whilst returning from a visit to a sick crofter. The sight had brought her up short. She had to pass by the men in order to get home, crossing the modest river by means of a small bridge upstream of the weir. But, feeling embarrassed, she couldn't bring herself to do so. Instead, she had hidden, thinking to stay concealed where she was until they'd cleaned themselves up and departed for home. The evergreen yew afforded her a good hiding place.
They must have amazing constitutions she thought, for it was beginning to freeze. White clouds of breath puffed from mouths as they unbuttoned coarse cotton shirts and unbuckled breeches. Catherine had gaped with amazement. She was shivering with cold, and her feet were turning numb inside of her stout, black, low-heeled walking shoes. She was cloaked and gowned warmly, indeed, she had put on extra petticoats that morning; they were stripped naked and wading into the swift moving, frigid river.
They yelled and laughed, splashing about, submerg-

ing themselves and ducking others. They wisely didn't hang about long though, and soon scrambled up the bank shaking their wet hair, jumping about to dry off before quickly donning their clothes once more.
What an assortment. What choice. From the ugly to the handsome. She had devoured them all with her hungry gaze, watching biceps ripple, and tight buttocks clench, pale and globular before breeches were hoisted and belts buckled. Some were bearded, some had their long locks tied back with strips of rag into the fashionable queues.
One man in particular had arrested Lady Catherine's attention. He was a blond. Tall, muscular (weren't they all), eyes pale, jaw chiselled. His handsomeness was pleasant to behold but it was his manhood that caught Catherine's undivided attention. She had never seen anything so enormous. The donkey at the woodman's cottage had sprung instantly to mind.
The labourer rose from the water, climbed the grassy bank and shook himself. He was glorious. His wet blond hair flew about him, emitting a shower of crystal droplets. He tied it back with a length of dark blue ribbon, and patted dry his firm torso with his shirt before slipping it back on.
Catherine had put her balled fist to her mouth, fearful that she might murmur with appreciation and give her presence away. Her woman's place had throbbed with longing.
His penis hung down his leg, soft, silken, unaroused and diminished even by the icy contact with the river waters. And yet it was still a larger specimen than she had ever imagined any man possessing. Not that she had ever thought about it at any great length.
She'd not been able to get him completely out of her mind since.
'Well?' said Horace, arching an eyebrow.
Catherine started. 'M'dear?' She looked up from the food she was moving around her plate with a silver fork, and found that everyone was looking at her. She

blushed, for she had no idea anyone had been talking to her.
Horace tutted. 'I said, will you not call upon Betty to serve the dessert?'
Catherine got a grip on herself and nodded amenably. 'Yes, of course. Right away. And mayhap after luncheon we can all go inspect the progress your builders are making on the hall?'
'Capital idea' said Horace.
The inspection went on until the light failed. Then the Balfours retreated indoors. Curtains were drawn and fires banked, then the ladies retired to rest before supper.
Harold intercepted Sophie upon the stairs. It was no chance encounter. He'd promised her the earrings and he wanted something in exchange. Sophie knew what was expected of her, and was willing, as she thought the earrings well worth it.
'Uncle.' She paused in her doorway, smiling fetchingly.
'Sophie.'
'I'm in need of a little privacy and rest.'
He crowded in upon her. 'Complete privacy?'
"That depends.'
'Upon what?'
'Upon your discretion.'
'A trusted friend would not jeopardise a young lady's reputation,' he said.
"Then he could keep her company.'
They moved into the room and she shut the door. He pulled her to him, then thrust his hand down the inside of her bodice, past the scratchy lace, to her hardening nipples.
His breath rasped, his fingers probing, lacking in tenderness or finesse. Sophie paid his uncouthness no mind. The pearl earrings forever drifted in her mind's eye.
His head ducked, and his teeth grazed her stiffened nipples. He sucked ardently, until he was red in the face.

She smirked, enjoying her sense of power. He groaned as his rumblings with her corsetry became more urgent, more desperate.
'I want y'girl.'
'Harold, I am a virgin,' she gasped, scandalised.
He wondered whether she was lying or not. 'Gotta have you ...'
'Well ...' she said, as she backed towards the bed teasingly. She fell back on to the bed, raising her legs in the air.
He fell upon her, crazy with lust, quite unhinged by her youth. Her petticoats went up in the air, one after the other, and Harold, seeing her darkly furred puss, dived in that direction, mindless with his need for her.
He caught her legs, pressed them open and outwards and assaulted the wanton Sophie with his pointy tongue, slipping the wet, slobbering dart in amongst her most intimate folds.
She squealed and groaned, her body writhing despite her act of nonchalant superiority. She loved it; she thrust up against him.
Harold serviced her slavishly, waggling his tongue in her salty secrets, submerging it as far as he was able, smoothing her white thighs beyond the black extremes of cotton, gartered stockings.
She giggled, gurgled, then arched against him. She grasped his head to her heated core until it seemed as if she wished to draw him in, devour him.
He whimpered ecstatically, holding her open, exposing her every secret and finding comfort in her cries of joy as her crisis came upon her.
She lay back replete and then Harold lay upon her, kissing her freed breasts, pulling upon the hardened nipples. Sophie was so dreamily content she would let him do as he wished within reason.
He unbuckled his breeches and snuggled close to Sophie, working his turgid length between her generous mounds of flesh. She was not expected to participate,

just be pleasantly acquiescent. He came, gasping and croaking, his essence spattering her chest.
'My adorable girl.'
She beamed him a false smile.
'Virginity is such a tiresome thing. Can I not rid you of it?' offered Harold, lying in a sweaty heap beside her now.
'I think not. A girl's virtue is a definite asset when it comes to the business of marriage.'
'But I could offer you so much.'
'Nay, I think not' she said clinically. 'Not marriage. Not social advancement.'
'No, perhaps not' Harold conceded, 'but there are other things ... things important to a young woman's heart. A necklace to go with her newly acquired earrings for a start. Let me know if you are interested.'
She bestowed her sweetest smile. 'Perhaps.'
Like a doll Catherine stood, erect, arms outstretched, while her maid, Mary, unlaced her black daydress and coaxed it from her shoulders. It fell heavily to the floor, a dark, suffocating garment of wool and velvet.
Catherine looked on her form in the full-length mirror, but hardly saw herself at all. Rather she looked through her body, her thoughts a million miles beyond. Not even Mary dabbing her neck and shoulders with rosewater on a sponge could rouse her from the trance.
Catherine was thinking of the workmen again. It seemed that every moment her mind wasn't filled with worthy subjects of occupation, she did so. Images of men's bodies swam before her eyes, tormenting her. She mentally shook herself from so discomfiting a stupor, feeling much too warm all of a sudden, and saw then, as if for the first time in a long while, her own body semi-revealed before her.
She wore white silk stockings and buckled red shoes. Paniers of wicker basketwork greatly exaggerated the width of her hips, making her petticoats stand out, thus minimising her waist, which was tightly corseted and

gratifyingly trim. Above the corset her breasts swelled, full and seemingly made of pink-tinted alabaster.
Mary stepped up with her fresh evening gown. Catherine held up her arms automatically and it was slipped over her head. It was of an ecclesiastical purple taffeta that shimmered quite superbly as she moved. Its deep square neck and elbow-length sleeves were softened with ruches and froths of ecru lace. With much huffing, puffing and a surprising expenditure of energy, Mary determinedly secured the back laces of the bodice.
Now Catherine, doubly confined, could only breathe in the most shallow of fashions, her breasts rising and falling like plump fruits above the lace edging of the low neckline. Confined and imprisoned, they looked as if they longed for escape. Mary came with a pot of powder and a swan's down puff and dusted them.
'Jewellery, m'lady? Your amethyst necklace and earrings perhaps?'
Catherine gave it some thought, but then shook her head. "Tis Sunday. I think I shall wear one of the crucifixes ... the baroque one with the sapphires and pearls.'
Mary nodded her approval, and retrieved it immediately from the small trayed selection of jewellery in the tiny drawer of Catherine's boudoir console. Most of the Balfour jewels were locked away in the strongroom beneath the study, next to Horace's wine cellar. And they could stay there, Catherine had often thought. For the most part they were antique and ugly in their heavy Tudor and Plantagenet gold settings. She'd have long since sold them off to pay some of Horace's debts, but he wouldn't hear of it, and harped on about the ancient name of de Balfour. Yet what good was a name when a family faced the possibility of financial ruin? But Horace would listen to no argument.
The crucifix now hung around Catherine's neck. Gleaming and impressive, it was suspended by a thin ribbon of black velvet. Mary made a few minor adjustments to Catherine's hair and the swallow's tail of lace

that decorated its topknot and then the mistress of the house was ready to go below.
She walked sedately, as she was in no hurry to spend a Sunday evening with her family. Indeed sometimes she wished she might escape and never return. God forgive her, what a wicked thought and what a terrible woman she was!
She entered the wainscoted parlour, said good evening to each of them in the same flat manner, then went to sit at the small round table upon which had been placed -as it was every Sunday - the family Bible.
Ralph stood staring out of the window, the slim volume open in his hands, totally ignored. Soon the heavy curtains would close upon the darkening sky, so he devoured the view while he could and also doubtless dreamed of escape.
Horace was hidden behind a close-printed broadsheet. The Gloucester Gazette was more than a week out of date, but that didn't bother him.
Sophie and Frances sat at a table, embroidery hoops in their hands, though they did precious little sewing. They should have liked to play cards, but on a Sunday such a pastime was forbidden. There could be no gambling, nor anything loosely associated with it, on the Lord's day. So they sat with their embroidery, doing a few stitches of crewel or stumpwork, sighing and yawning often with poorly concealed boredom.
Lucky Uncle Harold had, for the time being, returned to London. He came and went at will. All thoughts of him that evening were decidedly envious.
Catherine took her place, sitting so that all in the room could see her, and so have no excuse for not giving her their full attention. She opened the large and heavy book at the page marked by an elaborate, tasselled marker and, making sure one last time that she was comfortable and ready, began to read the first verse of the new chapter.
She read from the gospel of St John. It really didn't matter to any of those seated or standing dutifully about

the candle and firelit room. Once Catherine got underway they automatically switched off, losing themselves in their own individual thoughts: mulling on lovers, new dresses, invitations to parties and the new blacksmith's passably pretty wife. Catherine's reading from the Bible was simply a background droning noise.
This evening even Catherine was not finding it easy to concentrate. She could not capture her usual enthusiasm at all. She mouthed the words but their meaning was quite lost upon her. Her mind was elsewhere. It was filled with naked imagery: burly bathers, rough, muscled and dripping wet. And from there her thoughts jumped, quite unconnected, to the lusty vicar. Would she have been able to resist him quite so steadfastly if he'd been as handsome as the bathing beauty who'd so captivated her? She wanted to be able to say yes but she couldn't. She wasn't sure any longer.
And would she have put up such a struggle if he hadn't taken her so by surprise and frightened her? Again she would have liked to give a mental nod and feel righteous and indignant at his actions, but she could not. If he'd been more handsome, more subtle and gone about her seduction with a little more finesse, how greatly different might have been the outcome.
'Daydreaming's becoming a bit of a habit with you, m'dear,' said Horace, sneering at Catherine amusedly over the top of his newspaper.
She blinked, then flushed at the smirking faces of her husband and offspring. She'd done it again. She couldn't believe it. She was so embarrassed. If only these things would stop plaguing her. If they didn't, she felt she might go mad. She had to get them out of her system somehow. She needed a man!
'Sophie, dear, take over.'
Her eldest daughter declined with disdain. 'I'd rather not, mama. I don't enjoy reading aloud, especially not from the Bible. Ask Frances why don't you?'
Frances narrowed her eyes at Sophie for a malevolent

second and then smiled sweetly, reaching for the Bible. 'I'd be happy to.'
Catherine composed herself and sat back to listen, determined to concentrate. Frances read brightly, turning a dreary passage into a holy revelation of crystal clear wisdom. The people on the page came to life, had voices, accents even and spoke with passion.
The other four people in the room became increasingly attentive, and hung on her every word as if attending a highly commendable play at Bristol's Theatre Royal. There were audible murmurs of disappointment when Frances deemed herself finished and proclaimed, with a rather incongruous bow to her audience, 'Here endeth the lesson.'
They should have liked to clap, though of course, that would have been wholly inappropriate.
'Very nicely read, Frances dear,' complimented her mother.
'Indeed, yes' said Horace. 'You must read for us next Sunday too. Indeed every Sunday.'
Frances beamed and appeared to blush, then closed the Bible once more upon the tasselled marker. 'Did you really enjoy it?'
'Very much so,' insisted Horace.
Sophie compressed her lips, suffering a pang of jealousy. T read just as well.'
'Of course you do, dear,' said Catherine, placatingly, though they both knew it wasn't true. 'Now let papa tell us of any interesting items in his gazette. What news makes the front page?'
Horace duly obliged, boring them rigid with the results of a regional by-election.
A light supper was brought in a little later and there was chocolate or wine. Usually Catherine would have stuck to chocolate along with her daughters, but not tonight. Tonight she was behaving uncontrollably out of character, and needed something to ease her troubled mind. Desperately, she decided that drink was the thing. Strong spirits. She matched Horace glass for glass and,

when the bottle was finished and he reached for the Genever decanter instead, she asked for a measure before he could neglect to do so.
He raised an eyebrow and went to sit in the Queen-Anne chair by the fireside. 'Not like you, m'dear.'
She tittered, and seated herself opposite him, enjoying the flames too. Tonight I feel a little reckless, Horace.'
His eyebrow lifted even higher, an amused smile playing upon his overgenerous, red mouth.
En masse, the children rose to leave as was customary at the hour of nine, the daughters kissing their parents' cheeks, whilst Ralph shook Horace's hand and patted Catherine indulgently upon the head. Goodnights filled the air, then the door closed and the parents were left in silence, staring at the flames.
Catherine felt hot and dreamy; the liquor coursing her veins and making her relax. She gave a luxurious sigh and, when Horace looked up, winked.
He frowned suspiciously. 'Are you drunk, m'dear?'
She laughed gaily. 'I don't think so. My eyes are still focusing, dear. I can see you quite clearly. And what a well-turned-out, handsome devil you are, if I might say so.'
He laughed scoffingly even while he preened. 'Don't talk nonsense, m'dear.'
'I'm not, Horace,' she declared adamantly. 'I really mean it. Perhaps I neglect to look at you properly quite as often as I should. But I'm looking now.'
Immediately Horace sucked in his belly and presented his best profile, positively glowing under such unexpected attention.
She needed a man. And she had one. She need look no further than her own husband, surely? Here was pleasure without guilt or risk. He was not perfect but, given the amount of drink that Catherine had downed, he grew more acceptable with each passing moment.
It was obvious that Horace was pleasantly surprised by this turn of events. It had been a very long time since Catherine had appeared so friendly. But rather than just

letting things develop, Horace exhibited his usual impatience in matters of the flesh. Seduction went out the window; he wanted to be up and at it.
He rose from his chair, and said, not very subtly, 'Bed, I think' Then held out his hand. 'Coming?'
'Already? Won't you sit a while and talk to me ... or, better still, kiss me?'
'Talk?' He was not enthusiastic. Kissing was different though. That automatically lead to other things. Kissing he understood.
Catherine gave a giggly squeal of surprise as her husband dropped to his knees on the rug before her. He shuffled close, his hands on her knees, parting them so that he could get even closer. Soon he was between her legs, amongst her skirts.
He began to kiss her, starting at her forehead, going down over her nose, planting a smacker on her mouth, then travelling on down to her ears, throat and breasts.
She gasped and strained against him. Oh yes, yes. More, her mind screamed delightedly. Her flesh was hot and quivering, all afire. His kisses were ardent, boisterous even, and what they lacked in finesse they made up for in enthusiasm. He nuzzled and teased with his mouth while his hands rummaged beneath her many skirts and petticoats, finding her hidden warmth and softness.
He pulled at her skirts, exposing her legs to above the knees. His watch chain caught in her garter lace and tore it, and his kisses became clumsy as he struggled to unbutton his breeches.
'Slow down, Horace' she pleaded. 'We've got all night.'
But leisurely lovemaking had never been her husband's forte. He was a man who loved conquest, action and speed. His hard shaft was already prodding at her, following where his fingers probed. She was warm and moist from being in a prolonged state of sexual arousal, so the head of his penis slipped about easily in her folds and found her entrance without trouble, his length plunging into Catherine in one fluid, gratifying leap.

Her body arched and her head went back, a long moan of pleasure issuing from her parted lips.
He kissed her mouth hard as he withdrew his length, then slipped it fully home again. His hands were on Catherine's thighs, holding her open and fully exposed to his delicious battering. He could look down and see where he entered her, hard and glistening, disappearing into her succulent rosiness. He watched his pumping flesh, her tight engulfing cranny and he began to cry out. He thrust, he jerked, stabbing at her wildly and making Catherine call out and clutch at him, her own desire building. But it was too late. He was too soon in coming and then it was all over bar the panting and jerking, his throbbing length softening in her, his sated body relaxing.
Tortured and unfulfilled, she could think of nothing but her throbbing hungry pussy and the despair she now felt instead of delight. It was hard not to let her resentment show.
Horace buttoned up his breeches and gave her a flush-faced wink, slapping her thigh playfully. 'Delightful, m'dear,' he said, gaining his feet and straightening his clothing before moving once more towards the decanter. 'Join me in a nightcap?'
She shook her head and swallowed away the dryness in her throat. 'No, I'm tired. I shall retire. Goodnight.'
'Goodnight.'
He was oblivious to her coolness, oblivious to all concerning Catherine, now that his desire had been quenched. He had ceased to regard her even before she'd left the room, his drink receiving his full and undivided attention.
She lay abed, on her stomach, her nightgown pulled up and a finger stroking her plump bud until at last her unpractised hand brought some relief. Only then could she finally sleep, lulled by a temporary satisfaction and peace. But temporary it certainly was. The next morning she awoke as troubled in mind and body as before, her

core vibrant with desire, and crying out for a surfeit of good loving.
Last night had not really helped. Maybe it had even made matters worse. She felt more unfulfilled than ever; so hot and wanton that she was afraid of what she might do.
Her mare pranced into their midst. Surreptitiously the labourers watched Catherine, their working movements now automatic. Her tawny hair was not in its usual severe topknot. It hung about her, gently waving, bouncing on her shoulders and streaming down her back. The chill air had brought colour to her pale cheeks. Her small hands in their black leather gauntlets expertly controlled the horse.
She tapped the blond man on the shoulder with her riding crop, 'you, come with me.'
He straightened, eyebrows knitting. 'Milady?'
'I need a man's assistance elsewhere and would borrow you.'
'As you wish.'
His accent was local. Broad and rounded. There was worry in his pale blue eyes for she looked so formidable, wearing that stony, unsmiling expression.
Catherine cantered the mare into the estate copse, riding so fast that the man had to run to try and keep up. By the time he had reached her, Catherine had dismounted. She was pointing a flintlock pistol at him.
He balked, understandably.
'I am a desperate woman,' said Catherine, her hand trembling, her voice faltering. 'Strip.'
'Milady?' His eyebrows shot up. She could not be serious.
'Off with your clothes, man. I... I simply have to have you or I shall go mad, I think,' she explained, sounding faintly apologetic even while she tried to intimidate him.
He almost collapsed with relief. She wasn't a madwoman bent on murder after all. Just another wife

hungry for a little loving with no strings. There had been several in his life.
He stripped most artistically, happy to please Catherine in whatever manner she wished.
She unbuttoned the first dozen tiny buttons on the bodice of her sage-green velvet riding habit. Her breasts, pale and almost luminous in the shade, beneath the canopy of trees, thrust forward. She watched him intently, moistening at the sight of his rippling arm and chest muscles, and holding her breath as he unbuckled his thick leather belt and let his breeches drop.
He stepped out of them, and stood with his long legs planted wide, a man totally self-assured. His gorgeous length was hardening and rising before Catherine's eyes. A glimmer of a smile at last touched her tense face.
She indicated the leaf-softened ground at his feet with her pistol. 'Down.'
He lay down, smiling, enjoying all this immensely. The pistol aimed at him added a piquancy to the proceedings. He'd never been obliged to take orders from a woman before. Such a novelty was highly stimulating. That and the fact that she was a very beautiful woman. No man in his right mind could have turned down such a pretty, and such a desperate invitation. He watched her approach, hardening all the while. His wondrous length seemed to say, 'Look at me, how could you possibly ignore me?'
And look at it Catherine did as she stood over him, lifting her skirts and lowering herself onto him, her knees either side of his slim hips. Poised there she smoothed his torso and his arms, thrilling at the touch of his warm flesh. Then she claimed his member, running her encircling hand from base to tip, her eyes twinkling.
'I've never seen anything like it' she purred in praise.
'Handsome, ain't it. Almost a footer when roused.'
'Twelve inches!' gasped Catherine, her fingers trembling with delightful anticipation around the silken sword.
'Aye, just so. I had a lady once who were so impressed

she did produce a tape measure from her sewing box and take precise measurements.'
Catherine quivered as she manoeuvred the cumbersome head to her spot and began to lower. Slowly and gently, even a little in awe of the mighty thing, she went down, taking in the man inch by delicious inch.
He reached up and palmed her jutting breasts. Still she lowered, tight and hot about him, her mound at last coming down upon his forest of golden curls. She held her breath, and faintly she shook her head in disbelief. 'So big!'
He felt her quiver and clench about the meaty shaft and his blond eyelashes flickered with the pleasure. He caught her about the hips, and was about to try to wrest Catherine onto her back and take control, but she shook her head vehemently, snatching up the pistol. 'NO.'
She wanted to ride him. He was her mount, the instrument of her pleasure. She wanted to be in control, wanted to use that glorious shaft as it suited her. She didn't want to know the man's name even. All that was irrelevant. He was merely the object to quench her out-of-control desire. She could think no further than that.
With a pistol thrust into his face, the labourer could do naught else but surrender himself to her whims. He did so with commendable bravery and gusto.
Catherine moved slowly, savouring each stroke, trembling delightedly at the way he filled her to excess. She watched his face - the pleasure in his blue eyes, the tension in his jaw. His nostrils flared as he breathed.
Occasionally he lost control. He couldn't just lie there, an appendage to the hard fleshy pole upon which the lady of the manor took her pleasure. When he could no longer resist, he raised his head, neck cording with the exertion, and fastened his mouth hungrily upon her breasts, teasing the hard nipples and smoothing the silken globes.
Catherine felt the waves of pleasure begin to build, then felt them crash and break almost instantly. Her passion had been so acute that it had taken only the

barest minute since her possession to come to climax. She tightened upon him, throbbing, drawing his hard shaft deep within her so that she could feel it at her core. She shuddered and groaned but she didn't stop. She was only partially satisfied. She stroked on gently, her eyes half-closed, her mouth likewise.
His lips fastened on and tugged insistently at her nipples. The sight of her radiant face, and the exquisite feel of being fucked by her, kept the labourer in a heightened state of ecstasy. Several times he felt himself coming near the point of no return and he had to close his eyes to the adorable sight of her, and try to think of something - anything save what she was doing to him.
Her gentle movements soon became more violent, and once more Catherine was stroking deep against him and crying out again.
He waited until she'd calmed for the second time before he begged, 'Please ...' as he had an urgent need to turn her onto her back and drive into her.
She relaxed upon him and allowed herself to be turned. He was still deeply embedded within her. He sank in deeper, pulling Catherine's legs up and around his back, allowing himself the deepest possible penetration. His flesh pushed in and out, hard and thick, until Catherine gave endless little cries as she felt her depths battered.
There was no one to see them beneath the trees. No witnesses. Only the woodland creatures. What a picture they made, their clothes awry, their pale, intimate flesh exposed. He was sheathed in her tight folds, his flesh piercing her, stretching and rubbing upon her so beautifully that below the waist Catherine felt herself to be one massive, unendurable tingle. Her legs were wrapped tight about him, her stockinged ankles locked behind his back and her arms were snaked about his neck
The man was grunting now, pumping hard, blowing air down his nostrils. His strokes were measured and hard and made Catherine writhe in pleasure-pain. For the third time her climax approached. So did his. He

gripped her about the waist and pumped madly, thrusting himself into her, his cods slapping at her arse. He came with a choking, triumphant gurgle of pleasure.
Neither of them moved until they'd regained some modicum of control over their liquefied limbs and ragged breathing.
She smoothed down the crushed velvet skirts of her riding habit and buttoned her bodice. He pulled on his breeches and woollen stockings, wearing a smug grin. Yes, he looked very pleased with himself.
Catherine mounted her mare and brought the beast alongside. She looked down at him, her face expressionless.
'I hope I can count on your discretion, man' she told him rather than queried, pistol in hand once more. T'would be a crying shame for all the other women in the county if - say I was to hear rumours concerning what took place here this day - you were accidentally shot in a hunting accident. I'm notoriously useless with guns. Such a tragic waste it would be.'
He was quick to reassure her. 'I'd never betray you, milady. Nay. I am your most devoted servant. I knows how t'keep such a precious secret.'
She smiled then. Sensible fellow. 'I thank you. Good day.'

Chapter Three

'Yes, but' Horace was arguing with his architect, 'if  the staircase were to sweep down from the right to the left it would look more spectacular from the vestibule below.'
'But, Sir Horace' protested the man, hating for his plans to be so interfered with. 'The staircase was set from right to left to make maximum use of the oriental chandelier. The effect would be quite spoilt were we to move it.'
'I'm paying and I prefer it the other way' said the obdurate Horace.
The architect's jaw clenched. This was by no means the first time his designs had been charged.
Catherine rose from the overstuffed, brocade-covered sofa and set down her sewing hoop. She'd heard quite enough. She knew, as surely as the poor architect, that Horace would have his way in this matter as in all things.
'I think I shall go for a walk before the light fails' she said.
They paid her no heed. They were locked in their unequal battle of wills, poring over the plans laid out before them on the folio cabinet in the drawing room. Horace had always insisted on calling it such; Catherine, however, thought of it as the parlour. The new house was to have several drawing rooms.

Cloaked, with her hands inside a fox fur muff for warmth, Catherine strode out, avoiding the labourers who worked ceaselessly day in, day out to reshape the park gardens. She had no wish to bump into the man she'd used so single-mindedly at gunpoint. She felt ashamed of herself. She had no idea what had come over her, why she had given in to such uncharacteristic madness. She couldn't explain it, or excuse it. She could not forgive herself.
She should have liked to go to the vicar and pour out her heart. Confess. Have him tell her, nay reassure her, that she wasn't really a wicked woman; that God could forgive such a momentary lapse. But she no longer had her confidant. He, poor mixed-up, besotted fellow, had found it impossible to stay in such close proximity to herself, and had packed up and moved on, seeking an audience with his bishop and professing that the life of a clergyman was not for him. He could no longer serve God to the best of his ability. The bishop had let him go without much ado. There was always a surfeit of vicars. It would be only too easy to fill the vacancy. The more prominent families in the land adhered to the age-old custom of the first son succeeding to the titles and estates, the second son joining the army, and the third son joining the church. It was nearly always so. Yes, a vicar for Munsey would not be difficult to find.
Catherine climbed the gentle rise of sheep-cropped grass that led up towards the dry-stone wall which marked their boundary. Riding in her general direction was Squire Lawley-Lovelock. He spied Catherine, and spurred his mount, a chestnut gelding.
He was a handsome man. Pleasant. Regular of feature, tall and sound of limb. So fresh somehow, compared to her dissolute husband.
Catherine lingered at the wall, suddenly wondering at her own appearance. She fiddled with a stray lock of hair. Something inside of her longed for a man like him - someone attentive and courteous - a true gentleman. He'd not have taken much coaxing, she felt certain, to

embark upon a lustful liaison. How handy he would have been as a lover! But, no. He was a married man. Her ethical code made him forbidden fruit. Still, forbidden or not, that didn't stop her taking pleasure in his company. There was a sudden warmth to her neck and palms, the uncontrollable delight evident in her smile.
He reached the wall and reined in his mount.
'Good day, Lady Catherine.'
'Patrolling your boundaries, Thomas?'
'Nay. You and your sheep can stray this way any time you choose' he said hopefully, grinning.
"The walls are sound,' Catherine pointed out.
'I could always undermine them in the dead of night if I thought t'would do any good' he suggested, eyes twinkling.
She laughed prettily.
He dismounted, and walked his horse slowly on his side of the dividing stone wall, matching her pace. 'I have a morsel of news that may interest you.'
'Oh?'
'Back in the summer I had a geologist friend of mine dig about in that old hillside cave of mine. Apparently there is a rich seam of coal.'
'Really?'
He nodded. 'And apparently it runs straight into your property.'
She paused in her walking and turned towards him. 'Interesting.'
'Aye. Coal's fetching a premium at the moment. I commence mining forthwith and I am bringing in an expert at the open cast method. By all accounts the coal's very near the surface and can be excavated with ease. No need to sink shafts or what have you. I'd advise you to hire a professional to look into tilings, Catherine. I could put you in touch with my mart, if you liked. There could be a great deal of money involved.'
She nodded thoughtfully. 'Do me a favour, please, Thomas: don't mention this to Horace just yet; he has a

way of spending money before we've even got it. I would like to look into this matter in more depth first.'
Thomas rode home swiftly, the chill air stinging his cheeks. His sandy hair - dressed into a queue and tied with sapphire ribbon - loosened and riffled by the wind. He looked rakish and charming. There was a lascivious spark in his eyes; he could think of naught but Lady Catherine.
A groom took his horse and led it off to the stables. The squire strode inside his house, calling instantly to his wife. 'Abigail! Where are you dearest?'
From upstairs came a shouted though faint, distant reply. He grinned and took the stairs two at a time.
Abigail was in her bedchamber, sitting at her writing desk. Her crow quill hovered in midair as Thomas entered and she looked up, beaming a smile of welcome. 'You look positively ruddy, m'dear.'
'Been riding. The wind stung m'face,' he replied, shrugging off his military style jacket with its profusion of braiding and buttons. He threw his tricorne hat into a comfy chair.
'I'm writing to mama.'
'Convey my warmest regards,' said Thomas, quite insincerely, removing his lace cravat and unbuttoning his voluminous lawn shirt. It was snow white and ruffled at cuffs and front. His lean chest, glimpsed beneath, was pale and devoid of hair.
Abigail was concentrating once more upon her correspondence.
Thomas came up behind her chair and put his hands to her shoulders, kissing her nape.
'Darling!' she scolded in mock irritation, 'I'm writing.'
'Um.' His hands slipped the lace kerchief off her shoulders, his lips descended and lingered.
'Thomas!'
'Abigail, need I remind you of your wifely duties?'
She giggled, laying down her pen. "Tis almost the hour for tea.'

'There is time even so. Come.' He caught her by the hand, pulling her from the walnut writing chair with its ball and claw feet and cabriole legs.
'Where? How?'
"The bed. No, not on your back. Let us be bold, dearest. Stand on the carpet and bend over the bed'
'Thomas, really' Abigail gasped and giggled, but didn't refuse.
He took a hold of her silk skirts and cotton petticoats and hoisted them up, bunching them about her waist.
She was slim, her rump nonexistent. He could only wonder in lamentation how someone who ate so much managed to look so malnourished. Her legs were pale above her white silk stockings and dainty brown, buckled shoes. The expanse of bare flesh excited him even if it wasn't perfect; even if he was fantasising all the while about Lady Catherine being there, in his wife's bedchamber, bent over the bed, oh-so willing.
He came up close, unbuttoning his breeches. His hands smoothed the fleshless globes of his wife's buttocks, a finger delving between, stroking and opening her.
'Oh, make haste, husband' urged Abigail, practically. I fear the maid may happen in upon us. I am red-faced with shame at the very thought'
I'll not be hurried, m'dear. I am of a mind to take my pleasure as leisurely as I please. Let us not forget who is master here'
'No, dear' said Abigail indulgently, smirking.
Her half-mocking tone of voice had not escaped him. He took hold of his member and smoothed it admiringly, putting the shiny red head to her moist and eager spot and slipping into her. He pushed all the way, grinding against her, holding her still at the hips. He smiled when he heard her gasp.
"Thomas, have a care. I like not being used like a cow by some lumbering, brutish bull,' she scolded.
He pushed her face into the duck feather mattress to silence her and thrust at her relentlessly. He was violent

and quick, imagining, with his eyes closed and Abigail muted, that Lady Catherine then quivered and contracted about the swollen girth of his manhood. Oh why did she have to be so damnably virtuous?
Lady Catherine stalked her prey doggedly, enjoying the game immensely. For the first time in a long while she was really having fun. She was amazed by her own deviousness.
How to do a little profitable mining without Horace becoming involved and skimming off all the profit? Her plan was simple and, in her opinion, brilliant.
She watched as Horace went into the barn where the cows were now assembled for the afternoon milking. One of the milkmaids had caught his eye. She was brawny-armed and splendidly plump, For days she'd been smiling encouragement, having been well paid for her collusion by Lady Catherine. Horace - never a man to look a gift horse in the mouth - had noticed her and now, at last, had seen his opportunity to get her alone.
He moved stealthily into the barn, looking furtively over his shoulder. He came upon the maid, squatting on her three-legged stool, her expert hands pulling on the cow's long teats, milk squirting noisily into the tin pail beneath the docile creature's hind quarters.
Lady Catherine homed in.
For several moments Horace savoured the look of the milkmaid, how her arms worked, muscular and strong, how her black, laced stomacher forced her ample breasts upwards, her large nipples half-visible. He felt quite heady, and began to swell in his breeches.
The milkmaid turned her head and feigned surprise at the sight of him. Her eyes innocently wide, she tittered, 'Sir Horace, how long have y'been there a-spying on Ruthy Tripp?'
'Long enough to appreciate what a pretty picture she makes at her work,' said Horace, stepping closer; leaning against the wooden stall partition to openly admire her.
'How old are you, Ruthy?'

'Nineteen, sir.'
'Ah, nineteen,' he sighed, his mouth curving lasciviously. 'Body ripe. Senses aroused. Needs awakened.'
She gasped in mock shock, milking her cow all the more purposefully.
Horace watched, greatly aroused by the sight. Many moments lapsed. Neither spoke. Warm milk squirted, plump fingers encircled and drew down upon pink and liver speckled bovine udders. Ruthy's breasts hung pendulously, wobbling with her efforts. He breathed heavily, noisy gusts of air issuing from his nostrils. He was ramrod hard in his damson velvet breeches.
The cow was empty and Ruthy stood up, setting the half-filled pail safely to one side and putting hay into the manger for the brown-eyed beast with its coquettishly fluttering dark lashes.
'Shall I milk you next, sir?' said Ruthy, coming up to Horace and placing her palm, flat and butterfly light over his hard member.
He swallowed, grinning boyishly as he nodded.
She dropped to her knees before him and unbuttoned his breeches, freeing the hot, damp flesh and smoothing her palms all about it.
'Ooh, you do look painful swollen with longing, sir. What's got you in such a state?'
'You, lovely Ruthy. You' said Horace. His breath bated, and fingers tightened upon the stall rails behind him as she went to work in earnest. She was an expert. So delicate, so knowing.
She freed him completely from his breeches, cupping his balls and applying a gentle squeezing pressure. Her right hand encircled his girth and began rhythmically to work up and down upon it. He couldn't possibly have become any harder. Indeed he wore a permanently pained kind of grimace upon his face, and seemed to be forever on the point of exploding. But Ruthy was an expert with those hands. She knew who to keep a man dangling, fulfilment always just ahead and just out of reach.

His buttocks quivered and knees trembled. Then she took pity on him, formed her full-lipped mouth into an inviting 'O' and drew his member in. She cupped his balls tightly and squeezed them one against the other, sending Horace into a protracted groan of exquisite pleasure. Her wet mouth slobbered about him, drawing upon him, tight and insistent, milking him. And he came, crying out gratefully, 'Oh you wonderful woman. You beauty.'
She gulped on him and, when the spasms that racked him had died away, she drew off her mouth and smiled, licking her lips.
Someone barked his name and he jumped, startled and guilty, caught with his proverbial pants down.
'Horace!'
In one quick, panicked motion he pulled up those breeches and covered himself. Several different expressions flitted over his face: guilt, embarrassment, anxiety.
Catherine stood in the doorway, arms akimbo, looking stern and unforgiving. There was nothing he hated more than Catherine in a black mood and being caught in compromising circumstances with a milkmaid was most certainly guaranteed to put her into one.
'Horace' she said again, shaking her head at him in disappointment, her voice full of scorn. 'How could you?'
The milkmaid, Ruthy, had by now retrieved her pail and made a speedy exit, winking conspiratorially to Catherine in passing.
'Sorry, m'dear. Sorry. It just sort of came over me. Don't know why,' apologised Horace, feeling contrite and uncomfortable. Fornication was one thing. He didn't think anything of it. It was just another bodily function. But getting caught at it was quite another. That aroused the modicum of guilt he had left in his shallow and deceitful character.
'How can I make amends, m'dear? Ask anything of me.'

She wore her most hurt and humiliated expression. 'I don't know that you can' she muttered tearfully, dabbing a handkerchief at her eyes.
'But Catherine -'
'I can't bear to look upon you, Horace. Button yourself up, for heaven's sake. You disgust me,' she declared, and hurried, upset, from the scene.
'Damn,' shouted Horace, hastily stowing away his squishy softness, and a frown creasing his brow. 'Damn damn damn.'
That night at the supper table Horace was quietly withdrawn, his manner towards Catherine solicitous and wary. She smiled inwardly.
After supper she sat by the fire in the drawing room and took up her sewing. Horace poured himself a drink and paced about in agitation. He'd obviously have preferred to be elsewhere. Everybody else was. Ralph was abroad, dining with the Lawley-Lovelocks and paying court to their daughter, Lucinda. Horace encouraged the development of a 'tenderness' between his son and Lovelock's daughter because, ultimately, it might bring the adjoining lands into Balfour possession. Sophie was visiting her Aunt Augusta at Cheltenham and Frances had retreated to her room to continue the water-colour painting that had kept her occupied all afternoon.
Without looking up from her sewing, Catherine spoke levelly to her errant husband. 'Horace, I have a favour to ask.'
He stopped his pacing and raised an eyebrow at her. He'd been expecting a blazing row, not her asking favours of him. He was heartened. 'Yes, m'dear?'
"Don't laugh, husband, but I've long had an interest in things ancient and antique.'
'Umm ...' He'd moved and sat attentively in his Queen-Anne chair, happy to give her his undivided attention if it meant keeping her mind off other things, namely his indiscretions.
'I should like to try my hand at archaeology. Now

don't laugh. I am serious. I have even made some enquiries as to how to go about it.'
Horace couldn't quite keep the indulgent smile off his face.
'Squire Lawley-Lovelock knows a man who has made fossils and the like his lifelong interest. He's been told of my fondness for all things Roman, and the squire says that there's a chance I could find things on our land; that the Romans did indeed live hereabouts, even had a villa, according to folklore. I should like to make the acquaintance of this gentleman and cultivate a mutual interest in the subject. There are certain areas of our estate, specifically some of the rockier outcrops near our boundaries that might well yield interesting information on the past. What say you? Do I have your approval?'
He was bored already. If she was occupied scratching at stones and excavating silly holes with pickaxes, he reasoned, then she wouldn't be in his hair all the time. Without hesitation he nodded. 'Of course, m'dear. Whatever makes you happy.'
She smiled up at him mildly then. "Thank you. I think I shall join you in a glass of Genever, if you'd be so kind.'
He leapt up out of his seat and headed in the direction of the decanter immediately, amazed at his good luck. The expected crisis had been averted. What silly, easily managed creatures women were!
Catherine reached up and took her celebratory glass of liquor from him, her smile an equal to his in smugness any day.
Ralph tethered his horse in the concealment of trees near the lake and strode towards the barely visible dovecot.
He took the key - the only key - from his pocket and opened the squat oak door, stooping to enter. The dank cold hit him. This was closely followed by a chamberpot. It clunked the side of his head, blurring his vision momentarily. The contents sluiced him down one side.

From the impenetrable gloom there was a wild laugh of triumph.
'Bitch!' He dashed his sleeve across his face, eyes blazing.
'Ooh master.' The voice was unnaturally high and mocking.
He put flint to tinder and lit a stub of candle, closing the door and setting the pathetic light carefully in a small wall niche.
The faint yellow light illuminated the far stone wall some two paces in front of him revealing, in elongated shadow, the woman manacled and chained there, like some mediaevel prisoner in a chateau's dungeon.
'Will you be nice to me today, Dulcie?'
In reply she spat with precision and vehemence, spittle spattering his already soaked coat front.
He took a step towards her, his heart thumping. He loved her, adored her. Always had. And yet she never treated him any kinder than she did this day. In consequence he was harsh with her. Determined. In the end he would break her, he would wear her down and make her his. Only then did Ralph feel that he would find peace of mind.
Dulcie was a village wench who had been the object of his desire since they had reached puberty. But he had hankered after her even before that. He remembered seeing her as a small child at church on Sundays. She'd been so pale and fair; such a contrast to his gipsy darkness. He'd been obsessed even then.
But Dulcie didn't like him. His arrogance, his spiteful streak, his belief that he had a God-given right to do just what he pleased. Such things sparked dislike and rebellion in her. When he had made advances, she'd refused them bluntly. It became a matter of principle. He was Sir Horace's son, a chip off the proverbial old block and, therefore, to be despised and avoided. Any softening towards him would have meant the ruin of her reputation. In so tight knit a community that was not a pleasant thought.

So there had been rebuff upon rebuff, the animosity between the two growing to fever pitch over the last few years until, finally, Ralph would not tolerate it any longer and had kidnapped Dulcie on her way home from potato picking at harvest time. He had then carried her off, trussed like a chicken, to her present prison.
Thereafter there was no pleading with her, attempted bribery for her favours or cajoling. That was done with. He'd locked her into the manacles and, with her thus partially restrained, he proceeded to take possession of her in a fever of pent-up lust.
Dulcie had been no faint-hearted virgin and her wild-ness and aggression had matched his own. Indeed, if she hadn't been tied up she might well have killed him. Like a she-cat she had set about him, scratching him badly and winding him with a well-aimed knee. Eventually though, they had both run out of steam and, blowing like a racehorse after a morning gallop, Ralph had fallen upon her panting body and slipped into the wetness. As a woman she wanted him as much as he had ever wanted her, but as a human being she hated him, and loathed all that he stood for.
So delirious with joy had he been at possessing his Dulcie at last that Ralph had come almost immediately, groaning as if in pain; his face buried in her platinum hair. He didn't notice her own receding waves of pleasure or see how she had gritted her teeth so that he shouldn't witness them. She hated to give him the satisfaction.
Two months now he had kept her a prisoner in the Munsey dovecot. The confinement had not made her any more docile.
"They'll find me,' she snarled prophetically. 'Then nothing will save you. My father will kill you, Balfour's son or not.'
Ralph laughed, and placed her food rations just out of reach. She was hungry, he knew, for he hadn't been able to come and see her yesterday. He had had to go courting Miss Lucinda Lawley-Lovelock. She'd be very hungry,

but being Dulcie she wouldn't even deign to look at the food until he'd gone. Then she'd fall on it ravenously, no doubt, and give herself a bad dose of indigestion, eating too quickly.
'No one's going to find you, baby. No one. Because no one's looking. They did - for a while. But now they've all reached the conclusion that you've either run off with some swain from a neighbouring village or else been stolen away by gipsies. There were some in these parts at the time; people'll blame them for anything.'
She cried out in rage and tried to kick Ralph. He laughed, dancing out of her way. A dark, handsome demon. She began to cry tears of frustration and rage. A concerned frown joined his black, sweeping eyebrows.
'Baby,' he soothed, going to her then, knowing she wouldn't fight. He crushed her close. 'Poor baby. Ralph's lovely Dulcie. All Ralph's. Mine alone. There, there, don't cry. Don't, it breaks my heart.'
'Let me go,' she pleaded heartrendingly. I hate this place. I'm so alone. So scared. At night I hear the foxes and the barn owls. Things move around in the straw ... creeping things.'
'You know I can't let you go,' reasoned Ralph, smoothing her tangle of spun-gold hair, and wiping her snotty face with his handkerchief. 'You won't behave. You won't be mine any other way. You'll bring the law down upon me. They'll likely hang me.'
'No, they won't. I promise. I'd speak for you. I'd say you didn't mean to hurt me none, distress me. That you love me and it got out of control. Ralph, I could save you.'
He arched an eyebrow, his look intent. He shook his head. 'But I don't believe you, baby. I know what a viper you can be, how you say things you don't mean only to get your own way. No, you'd happily see me hang. You'd come and laugh at the gallows.'
She kicked out at him then, spat too. He roared with laughter.
'There. See. Not so tender now, are you? That's the

real Dulcie. That's the girl I love. And I'd not have her any other way.'
She struggled in his arms, the manacles digging into her wrists, trying all ways to evade his mouth. But he was stronger and more determined. He kissed her savagely, their teeth clashing, his lips bruising against hers. She shuddered, half in pleasure, half in disgust and gave a long quivering sigh as she succumbed to the rough mastery of the man and his caresses.
He wrested her to the floor of the dovecot, where the straw on the stone floor had been softened somewhat by layers of blankets that he had smuggled from the house and stables. The stable lad had been whipped for the theft of the horse blankets.
On her back, the manacles drawing Dulcie's hands up above her head, she made a ravishing picture. Like some ravening wolf Ralph fell upon her, freeing her breasts from the coarse grey wool of her bodice and dragging up her soiled skirts.
The yellow light of the candle made her pale nakedness almost luminous. Hands kneading her breasts, he let his face drop to her mound, smoothing it, caressing its springy pelt of gilded curls until Dulcie relaxed her trembling legs and let them fall open at the knees.
The scent of her assailed his nostrils, and he brought down a hand from her breasts, working amongst her folds, holding her open so that he might ravish her with his tongue. He plunged it into her, loving the way she cried out. She was completely at his mercy. He ran his tongue up through her folds and around her bud.
She caught at his raven locks and held his head captive at her spot, her whole body galvanised with pleasure, her legs stiff and twitching as he brought her to the pinnacle of ecstasy. His spittle left her wet and easy for the hard, engorged member that then plunged into her, taking her to the hilt and thrusting deep into her, quickly and repeatedly, until he too was crying out, silencing himself with a harsh kiss upon her open, sighing mouth.

His tongue plunged much as his manflesh did, and Dulcie convulsed beneath him, groaning.
Soon he would have to go. He hated the thought of leaving her.
Catherine was amazed at just how much progress she had made with the mining enterprise, right under Horace's nose, as it were, without him even noticing.
By the spring of the following year the first cartload of coal was being hauled away via a new track across Squire Lawley-Lovelock's land, thereby avoiding a more conspicuous invasion of the Balfour estate.
Horace was totally engrossed in the house. Some rooms were already decorated and awaited only the furniture. Others he played around with, much to the growing exasperation of the craftsmen who had to act upon his whims. One day he was taken with the new Gothic, the next he felt more restrained and thought that perhaps chinoiserie was preferable. But his greatest delight at this time was the installation of a Romanesque bathroom. The king had one, so he'd heard, and all the new houses around Gloucestershire seemed to be having them built in, fashioned from the local white limestone.
Catherine might as well not have existed. They shared only the occasional meal together. Even the female house staff found his sexual antics on the decrease as completion of his beloved hall neared and he gave all thought, and most of his energy, to that great project.
The secretiveness of her partnership with the squire was a source of much unexpected excitement for Catherine. Outwitting her husband gave her a great deal of pleasure. And it wasn't as if she was cheating him in any way, she reasoned. No, all the profits from her venture were going into their bank at Gloucester. They just weren't visible to Horace. Her arrangement with the bank manager suited them both admirably; henceforth there was always money available to cover Horace's runaway expenditure. Bills could be quietly paid if need be. Horace of course always had a slightly inaccurate

•
picture of his true financial position. In short he believed himself to be in far more straitened circumstances than he actually was. And that suited everyone else. Had he known about the rosy upturn in their fortunes who could have said what excesses he mightn't then have indulged in? To Catherine it didn't bear thinking about.
Once a week she went to the mine to talk to her foreman and the squire. Once a month she went to Gloucester to talk with the squire more privately. Horace believed she'd taken a lover. The truth would likely have shocked him much more!
Catherine had always felt that she could do naught else but keep the squire firmly at arm's length. She liked him well enough. Indeed she liked him a great deal. He was charming and tempting. But he was just too close to home. Too much Horace's enemy, his very name an anathema. Anyway, Ralph might any day announce his intention to marry the highly acceptable Lucinda. And, besides, Thomas was as married as she was, and Catherine liked Abigail.
If Horace ever stumbled across the opencast mine on the farthest flung boundary of his land - which was highly unlikely because he was so engrossed in his house and totally disinterested in her 'archaeological' hobby -Catherine had decided to tell him simply that whilst digging for fossils and artefacts she had unexpectedly happened upon coal and that she was now having it carted away and sold. The reason she hadn't told him was because, well, she hadn't wanted to bother him with such trivia. He had so many other, more important things on his mind which needed his attention. He was such a busy man.
To celebrate the mining of the first five thousand tons of coal, the partners dined in style at the finest hostelry in the city of Gloucester, in the shadow of the towered cathedral. The food was fine and the wine plentiful. Catherine had told Horace she was staying over as she wished to be fitted for a new gown.
'Capital, m'dear. And for heaven's sake choose some-

thing less sombre for a change, um? You always look as if you're in mourning' he had said, preoccupied.
'Perhaps, dear' she had replied.
His words came back to her as she ate her dessert: pears preserved in brandy with mouth-watering short-crust and a surrounding lake of thick cream.
'As usual you look quite lovely, Catherine.'
'Thank you, Thomas.'
She did. She knew she did. The image she'd had of herself was all wrong. Her husband's indifference over so many years had led her to believe herself unworthy of love. Now she knew better.
Her gown was of blood-red satin, its stomacher fastened with burgundy bows, its quilted underskirt of dusky pink brocade. Ruffles of lace softened the exceedingly low, square neckline, where her full breasts strained, swelling upwards. There was lace too, at the ends of the elbow length sleeves. Around her throat was a collar of pearls and from her ears dangled matching baroque drops. She looked gorgeous. Like some terrible, infernal creature, Thomas thought, unable to take his eyes off her.
'Gad, how I should love to -'
She cut him off, rut-tutting. 'Come come, Thomas. You know that would ruin everything. Truly you love your wife. I envy her and would do nothing to destroy the bond between the pair of you. Such fidelity is precious, do you not see? I am but a fancy. Put me from your mind. Were we to succumb t'would spoil everything, I fear. I value your friendship too much.'
He sighed heavily, his brows knitting. 'Gad, you can be so damned noble at times!'
She laughed, raising a glass to him.
'It would have brought a perfect ending to a perfect evening' he lamented, his eyes still pleading, still holding on to the faintest hope.
Gently she shook her head.

By winter, Dulcie had been forgotten by all save her immediate family and the young master of Munsey Hall, Ralph Balfour. His obsession with her was as strong as ever.
As the household moved, lock, stock, and barrel into their newly furnished house, the old manor was left empty and redundant, its doors locked and its windows boarded. As yet Horace couldn't decide what to do with it. In the dead of night, as soon as it was vacated, Ralph trussed up the singular object of his desire and carried her there.
He chose a back bedchamber that faced north and wasn't visible from the hall. This he then furnished lavishly with carpets from Samarkand and drapes of heavy, lined damask. Pieces of furniture - fine but antique and therefore deemed unsuitable for Horace's new abode - were dragged to the bedchamber and arranged with much thought by the fanatical Ralph. Dulcie would be spending all her time there; he wanted her to be as comfortable as possible, his bird in a gilded cage.
Set down upon a luxurious carpet, her bonds cut, Dulcie stretched herself thankfully and felt the circulation return fully to her restricted limbs. She looked around at the lavishness of her new prison; at the roaring fire in the grate, the steel dogs glinting; the scarlet theme that seemed to run throughout the furnishings; the colossal four-poster bed with its bulbous, dark oak posts whose friezes depicted satyrs and nymphs cavorting. Chasers and pursued running around for all eternity.
Dulcie ran to the window and flung back the tassel-edged curtains. With a cry of frustration she realised that the shutters had been put up on the outside and the sashes had been nailed firmly into place. She thought then, defeatedly, that no one was ever going to find her; that she would never escape. Her shoulders began to shake with sobs.
Ralph came up behind her and held her close, enfolding her in his arms. He was so solicitous it was hard to

believe sometimes that he was the cause of her torment. Rather he acted like her rescuer, her very salvation. He was mad. But such was her fury at his treatment, his utter gall, that she was madder.
She turned in his arms, in one liquid move, lacerating his cheeks with nails that had grown long and jagged after months of neglect and general lack of use.
He sucked in his breath and fended her off, his eyes blazing fiercely. He was amazed by her violence, fired by it. He wrestled her to her knees, and pushed her back. 'I shall take you on the floor, bitch. The bed's too good for you! I shall show you who is the master. I shall set the standard for our relationship from here on in. You will learn to love me, to welcome me. You will look forward to my visits. You will, some day, beg me not to leave you, and you will adore me much as I worship you.'
She laughed, shaking her head wildly. 'Never never never!'
'We shall see.'
'So we shall' she challenged, gasping as his hard length plunged into her, jamming to the hilt, thick and full. He forced her wide, and yet wider, gyrating within her so that Dulcie couldn't help but cry out with a pleasure she didn't want to feel, and didn't want to exhibit.
She gasped as her arms went round his back, plucking at the fine wool of his braided sapphire frock coat, his bloodied cheeks smearing her face.
He took her swiftly and harshly, wanting to punish her for her continuous recalcitrance. He needed to quench his terrible lust for her, but he knew it would only be temporary. The calm wouldn't last. The madness would soon return.
She cried out as she tightened about him. Waves of pleasure consumed her, until she lay panting beneath him.
Drained of his wild desire but full of tenderness, he carried her, staggering somewhat, to the softness of the

bed. He dropped her there upon deep, suffocating mattresses and licked her clean where he'd just used her. Their mingled essences seeped from her rosy, plump sex and he lapped them up, plunging his tongue deep into her, tormenting her already tender flesh.
She caught at his raven locks and pulled at them in a mindless reflex, as again her body betrayed her, responding to the demon who held her legs wide and pleasured her in so accomplished a manner.
He felt her quiver weakly and his laugh was harsh and gloating. 'Would you still deny your feelings for me?'
She turned her face away into the pillow, muttering something he couldn't catch and refusing to furnish Ralph with an answer.
To punish her, he took the candelabra and strode out, locking the stout door behind him. Left in the dark, Dulcie could reflect upon her, as he saw it, meanness of spirit. And though she yelled and banged on the door for a long time afterwards, there was no one to hear poor Dulcie's cries.

Chapter Four

'The Balfours walked the west terrace of their new home after Sunday luncheon. Harold picked periwinkles from the stone urn that - with a score of others - topped the balustrades, inserting the tiny posy of blue flowers into a frockcoat buttonhole.
Easter was just past and summer still a promise. The sun was out but there was scant warmth from it.
Horace walked idly beside the visiting Harold, talking about gazebos and grottos and the size of gravel for the paths mat would lead to them.
Catherine sat beneath the shade of her new Chinese parasol upon an ornate stone bench. She was reading from a slim volume of poetry - a Christmas present from her youngest daughter, Frances.
Ralph, erect and sharply handsome in his satin suit of azure and silver, walked arm in arm with his Lucinda. His courtship appeared to be progressing well. The official engagement seemed imminent. Lucinda was fair and freckled, a rangy, redheaded creature who showed some of her father's winning ways and spirit.
Catherine watched their receding backs and thought in all honesty that the girl would undoubtedly need such attributes if she married Ralph. He was her son but she was by no means blind to his faults. Had she been in

Lucinda's parents' shoes, Catherine doubted she would have looked so favourably upon such a union. But then the Balfour men could be charming devils when it suited them. Catherine guessed that Ralph's true nature had not so far been glimpsed. Give it time. Poor Lucinda. Something in Catherine wanted desperately to warn the girl. Horace had hoodwinked her during their courting. She'd been quite won over. Then, once the contracts were signed and the wedding band was on her finger, the real man had broken through the veneer and polish. It had been a rude awakening.
Catherine sighed, and tried to put such worries from her mind. Everyone had to live their own lives and make their own mistakes.
Horace and Harold had turned at the end of the terrace. They were coming back now, looking excited and animated as they talked. Her heart sank. What had Horace thought up now she wondered in dread. An orangery perhaps? Their own chapel? All the great houses seemed to have them nowadays. One's own exclusive chaplain would have to be engaged. What a frightening thought; it would cost them a fortune. Or, God forbid, perhaps he had visions of constructing a temple of Venus down in the south meadows, complete with muses on classical plinths! She almost laughed at the horrifyingly monstrous thought.
He definitely had something on his mind. She could tell. His eyes burned bright with excitement and he was walking fast, the sooner to share his proposal. He was all out of breath.
'M'dear, I've had a capital idea.'
'Oh?' She was noticeably dubious.
'Portraits. We must have protraits. Each member of the family. We can hang 'em up the staircase wall so that everyone who visits can see and admire 'em. All the great families have their members sit. Yes, we shall be painted for posterity.'
Catherine was aghast. She had some inkling as to how much an Academy man would cost. Their fees were

astronomical. She looked to Harold, but he was grinning along, as enthusiastically as Horace. She had the nasty feeling that the portraits might even have been his idea.
'But what of the cost?'
'I shall look into it' said Horace dismissively, waving such considerations aside. 'But, m'dear, we simply have to be painted. Everybody who is anybody is painted.'
'You'll have to go to London,' said Harold, already making plans. 'See if you can't engage Reynolds or Gainsborough. Though they're in constant demand and won't be cheap. But you'll want the best and they most definitely are. Beaufort had his daughters painted by Gainsborough, so I heard. Did a splendid job. Duke was over the moon.'
A feeling of great unease had descended upon Catherine. There was no way that they could afford to commission anyone who painted the offspring of dukes! The fee he would surely demand would likely bankrupt them.
'But everyone uses Joshua Reynolds and Thomas Gainsborough. Can we not be a little daring and try someone else? There must be other equally talented artists within the Academy. Who is the up and coming talent? D'you know, Harold? You seem well up on such things.'
'Uh, no. But I could find out.'
"Then please do so, brother-in-law.'
Horace was frowning. 'But I fancied Reynolds.'
"Think, dear, if you must insist on having him in particular you may have to wait months, years even, before so eminent an artist could find the time to paint your family. We should be well down on his list of priorities ... behind every duke, earl and lord.'
'Money talks though, Catherine. These artist chappies aren't likely to turn down a commission when the money's up front. Dukes and earls are notoriously bad at paying up for anything, live on credit. Terrible debtors the ruling classes, don't y'know.'
'Yes, dear, I do. But I'm thinking more of value for money. Why pay Reynolds or Gainsborough such high

fees when just as competent an artist can surely be found at a fraction of the cost? We can save money and have our paintings sooner rather than later. And if we're clever in choosing our artist, he also may be very famous one day and we shall have a bonus, we shall be able to say that it was us who "discovered" him; we appreciated his great talent before it became fashionable and apparent to lesser mortals.'
Horace chuckled.
Harold nodded. 'Oddly enough, Catherine, I find myself agreeing with you.'
Horace nodded thoughtfully. 'Very well, it's settled them. Harold shall seek us out a suitable artist when he returns home to London.'
Catherine smiled prettily, inwardly sighing at the thought of so many guineas saved.
The coach stopped at Marlborough so that its occupants might partake of luncheon. It then sped on to Cirencester where the horses were changed and a governess and her two young charges took their leave. A cart and a drowsing servant awaited them there, ready to transport them the final leg to the children's parents' country residence at Tetbury.
Aspiring artist, Joshua Foxe, noted their departure with thanks to the Almighty. Their noisy boisterousness in so confined a space had irritated him more than a little. The peace thereafter was something to be savoured.
A parson alighted at Cheltenham and then only Joshua, and the young couple on the seat opposite were left. His study of them had been, of necessity, surreptitious. It was, after all, exceedingly bad mannered to stare. He guessed that they were newlyweds, or at least lovers. Certainly they were more than friends; there was an unmistakable intimacy in their attitude towards each other. He felt like an intruder - surplus to requirements. He relaxed back into the corner of his seat, his long slim legs - in black breeches, dove-grey stockings

and black, bowed shoes - stretched out before him and crossed at the ankles. He pretended to be asleep and in time he truly was.
It was their meanings and groanings that awoke him. He spied on them from beneath his thick sooty lashes, an unconscious smirk transforming his face. Evidently their heat was such that they'd felt compelled to cool it forthwith, not even waiting until they'd quit the conveyance.
The young lady sat astride the gentleman, her black wool skirt and starched cotton petticoats pulled up and ballooning across the worn leather seat either side of them. Her partner had simply unlaced the flap opening at the front of his breeches and released his rampant member to service her.
To a casual onlooker hardly anything seemed amiss. But Foxe studied them more closely, a connoisseur's eye appreciating their inventiveness. Half-hidden by the folds of her skirts, the man's hands clenched possessively at the female's pale buttocks, a globe in each sizeable hand. Her splayed thighs hugged him. Rearing up into her, fat, veined and pneumatic in motion, was his penetrating shaft. It thrust up purposefully, filling her, stretching her most pleasantly. She clenched her buttocks, as she balanced on her tiptoes with trembling legs braced either side of her partner, savouring his warm, piercing flesh, drawing at it with her internal muscles.
They both moaned. Foxe watched, becoming increasingly aware of the stiffening in his own breeches. His eyes were riveted to her woman's place, and to the fleshy sword that stabbed at it so persistently, making her cling to her lover, press her breasts against him, and kiss him about the mouth, cheeks and ears. Her lover moaned louder, and held her then with steely fingers, thrusting up into her, jamming into his lady love with every available inch. She squealed, attempting to muffle the sound against his cravated neck, spasms racking her as her crisis came rushing in upon her. He jerked like a

thing demented, smothering his noisy appreciation of the pleasure he was feeling between her ample breasts. For a while after, they clung to each other, their breathing heavy and ragged, their faces suffused with colour.
Considerately, Joshua closed his eyes rightly and feigned sleep for a minute or two longer, the stiffness between his legs fading. He then made much of rousing from his slumbers and opened his eyes, smiling innocently over a well-staged yawn.
They had separated, and were now sitting demurely side by side, their clothing all put to rights; their smiles as innocent as his.
Foxe sat up and focused his gaze out the window, watching the passing gentle hills of lush green and the honeyed stone of farm buildings and the dry-stone walls.
Shortly, they clattered down a cobbled high street and the coach drew to a halt. The postilion opened the door and unfolded the step for Foxe to alight.
'Munsey!' called the driver belatedly.
Joshua inclined his head to the other occupants, wished them God speed and climbed out, fixing his black tricorne hat squarely on his dark head. His trunks and boxes of artist's materials were hefted down, his easel carelessly bumped then dropped.
'Careful there!' he barked.
'Begging your pardon, sir' apologised the driver.
Foxe scowled and took personal charge of the item, looking it over gravely. 'No damage done.'
The coach pulled away, its iron-rimmed wheels striking sparks off the cobbles, set on its final short leg to Gloucester.
Joshua's eyes lingered appreciatively upon the age-mellowed limestone of the old manor house. As he rounded a bend in the park's drive, he was next presented with the dazzling, dominating spectacle of Munsey Hall. Its grandeur symbolised wealth and position, from the porticoed, triangular-pedimented

entrance, to the shallow rise of honeyed roof tiles behind a classical parapet.
'That be the new hall' informed Squires, the driver who had picked Foxe up from Munsey high street. 'A pretty penny been spent on it and all. And the spending ain't stopped yet. No sir. Got some grand ideas do our gent. Very grand indeed.'
'Really?'
'Oh aye. They do say the Lady Catherine despairs of his extravagance. Not that she's miserly, y'understand,' Squires added quickly in her defence. 'She's a good Christian woman is Lady Catherine. And she do have a great deal t'put up with. He be a philanderer. 'Tis common knowledge.'
Joshua raised his eyebrows, and asked wryly, 'Is he good for his commission, d'you think?'
Squires laughed reassuringly. 'Lady Catherine'll see you paid, sir. She's renowned for making good his debts. Indeed if 'tis monetary matters y'need t'discuss, take yourself t'her rather than him. He be all promise promise and then forgets your conversation entirely once you be gone from his presence. Whereas she do listen and do act, most conscientiously too. She truly is the Lady of the Manor.'
The cart swerved around the sweep of gravel, past the main entrance, rumbling upon the flagstones in the immense yard before the purpose-built stable block. Here the equine inhabitants lived far more comfortably than any Balfour tenant in his leaky-roofed cottage.
Joshua Foxe's arrival created quite a stir, especially amongst the female servants. Some hung around the kitchen, laundry and dairy doors, while others stuck their heads out of upstairs windows where they were changing bedlinen and dusting. They in turn called to their workmates, and an army of inquisitive femininity appeared, to witness Foxe's alighting from the cart.
Neither was he oblivious to them. He allowed himself a half smile, especially when one of the laundrymaids, who was watching him so intently, walked, smack, into

one of the posts of her washing line and nigh on knocked herself out.
Feet firmly on the ground, he stretched, thankful to use his legs again, after so many hours at the whims of horsepower. He started towards the woman framed by the entrance to the rear of the mansion.
The woman was grave and unsmiling, dressed in a summer-weight shimmering silk gown of amethyst-black. The only relief was a trimming of lace around the low, squared neckline, the elbows and the topknot of her tawny hair.
He was interested, even a trifle disconcerted.
She extended her hand very formally. 'Mister Foxe, how do you do, sir?' Her voice was deep for a female, not simpering and sweet.
'Very well, thank you, milady.'
'Step this way. I will have one of the footmen show you to your room,' said Catherine, thinking that it would be the first real task one of their dozen fancy footmen had actually carried out since being taken on by Horace. Mightn't the shock be too great? She chuckled at the thought.
'Milady?'
She half-turned to the immaculately turned out Foxe, casting a cynical eye over the way he moved. Or rather minced she thought, noticing his lacy handkerchief.
'Nothing. Just thinking. Here we are. Horace thought a garret. I thought not. I am no artist but I believe it can do little for inspiration to be locked away at the top of some vast house. Much better to be near the ground and near to nature. What say you?'
'I agree entirely,' said Foxe amenably. He smiled winningly, and Catherine cocked an eyebrow. She knew insincerity when she saw it. She opened the door to his room and drew back, allowing him to enter first.
It was a ground floor room at the side of the house, with glass doors that opened out onto the terraces, the vista pleasingly contrived.

Foxe looked about, then turned to Catherine appreciatively. "The room is spacious. Very nice.'
'You will be spending a great deal of time in it' pointed out Catherine, 'for it must also double as your studio.'
'I understand. It will be more than adequate.'
Catherine found herself raising an eyebrow again. Was he mocking her? She couldn't tell.
She found him attractive but for some reason he irritated her greatly. Perhaps it was his lazy, indolent manner, a smile that almost-but-not-quite slipped over into a superior sneer. The man was only an artisan, for heaven's sake. She saw no reason for such wry arrogance. She felt that he saw through her; saw the real Catherine, the woman not the lady, and the thought disturbed her greatly.
Flustered, she retreated to the door, wanting to escape.  will leave you to settle in. A maid will be along shortly to unpack for you. You will take your meals in the servant's hall. Supper is at seven of the clock.' She closed the door. There, that had shown him; put him in his place.
She went back to her chambers and sat at her walnut writing desk. She took up her crow quill to write on creamy handmade paper, but as the nib dipped into the dense black ink in its silver well, her hand paused over the paper. It had been her intention to write to her uncle in Bristol, wishing him a happy sixtieth birthday, yet as she tried to think of an opening line her mind refused to cooperate, and began to wander. She stared off dreamily into space, the first time she had seen Joshua Foxe playing itself over again in her mind. What a handsome man. And didn't he know it. Full of himself. Every female who'd spied him had paused to watch him, mouth agape. Catherine prayed she hadn't done likewise. She couldn't honestly recall her own facial reaction, just an acceleration in her heartbeat. She didn't think she'd made a fool of herself like all the others. She sincerely hoped not. It would be a mistake, she felt sure,

to let a man like Foxe know just how disturbing an effect he had on one. How insufferably conceited he would become, how empowered. But she was determined that he shouldn't get the better of her. No. She was a match for that popinjay any day.
She dipped the nib again, wrote Dearest Uncle, then paused. He was so handsome. Beautiful almost. Not sharply handsome like young Ralph. Androgynous. Yes. His hair, swept back off his face and secured into a queue with a black ribbon was brown-black. So were his eyes. Dark, intense, smouldering. They burned into one, raked, probed beneath her clothing.
Her breathing grew laboured. Perhaps all artists were like that? Her quill scratched across the paper.
He was tall and slim, a man of restrained fashion. His black frock coat and breeches superbly cut, his cravat fancily tied and profusely lacy. His long legs with trim ankles were snugly encased in black superfine wool, his stockings were dove-grey cotton; his heeled black shoes sported black bows in preference to silver buckles. His clothes were severe compared to her husband's brocade coats and waistcoats with their clutter of braiding and buttons. She liked the simplicity.
She roused herself from her daydreamings and stared down at the paper on the desktop before her. She stared agog. She had written: Tight buttocks. Cruel mouth. Caress.
Catherine gasped in horror and frantically tore the paper into many tiny pieces.
Joshua woke groggily, tired after the cross-country journey. He lay still and hardly breathing, listening to the soft scrape and scratch. Was it a mouse or was it a burglar?
His room was dark, but not pitch black; he could make out shapes. They were human. Two of them. He waited until they were hovering over him and then he twisted around and leapt up in one frantic motion, an arm around the neck of each.
There was a squeak and a squeal. Then two voices,

high and giggly, protested in the darkness. 'It's us, sir. Norah and Clara.'
By now Foxe had reached the conclusion that they weren't out to do him harm. Even so his voice was harsh and disapproving of their actions. 'Norah and Clara who?'
'Dunne, sir. We do both work in the laundry. We wanted t'come wish y'welcome.'
'You picked a funny time of night.'
'We thought it might be more interesting t'catch y'in bed,, sir,' laughed one of them. The other joined in, like a kind of echo.
'Well, thank you for the welcome. Now can I get back to sleep?'
"The night's long, sir. There'll be plenty of time for sleeping later. We thought y'might like t'try some of our country pursuits. Our own particular favourite is Lusty Lovin' sir. Y'any good?'
'Mediocre,' laughed Foxe.
They outdid him, shushing each other. 'Oh sir, ain't you the humorous one.'
'No, no, I mean it,' he protested, reclining on his back, vulnerable to any assault they cared to make.
They both dived at him, making him yell out, and laugh just a little nervously. 'Help!'
'It's a big house, sir. You'll really have to scream if you want anyone t'hear you.'
He didn't feel so inclined, and told himself he didn't want to get them into trouble. He grinned foolishly and stared with unseeing eyes into the dark. 'Are you pretty, you pair?'
'Pretty and keen, sir' stated one of them, undoing the drawstring at the neck of his nightshirt and fastening her mouth over a nipple.
A shiver ran through him. 'Which one are you?'
'Norah.'
'Where's Clara?'
'I'm down here, sir,' said a voice, and artful fingers immediately fastened about his lolling shaft of pleasure,

smoothing it delicately to a state of stiffened arousal in no time. 'Ooh what a drowsing monster. I bet y'were popular in London, sir, with a meaty length such as this.'
'Modesty forbids an answer' said Joshua, wryly.
Clara gave a throaty laugh. Norah had rugged off his nightshirt by now and knelt beside him, caressing his lean chest with its smattering of crinkly hair with the sensitive tips of her fingers.
Foxe allowed them such liberties for a while, enjoying their attentions, then insisted, 'Light the candle, one of you. If I'm to be so taken advantage of, I'd like at least to see my ravishers.'
'Well...'
'Why the reluctance? Are the pair of you truly as ugly as sows?'
They roared with laughter, pinching and tickling him. 'Wouldn't y'like t'know' Norah teased uncooperatively, snatching away the candlestick beside the bed, when he made to reach for it and the tinderbox.
Then Clara was working on his stiffened member again and he couldn't seem to concentrate his mind on anything else. What did it matter what they looked like? He was perhaps being churlish to try and impose conditions upon their own inimitable form of warm welcome.
Clara's body glided over his and then he was aware of the tip of him, waiting at her poised, generously offered entrance, and then he was slipping slowly up into her, effortlessly, plunging full into her depths.
'Ooh, sir,' sighed Clara, not moving for a moment. She just hovered upon him for a moment, savouring his sweet possession; the feel of him stretching her opening, full, hard, wondrously huge. She thrilled at his size, and was in danger of coming almost immediately, the very thought almost too erotic. Then she moved. Arching backwards, bracing herself with work-roughened hands upon Foxe's downy thighs, rising and then falling with greedy intensity upon the enormity that impaled her. Within moments she was squeezing about him, contract-

ing and whimpering, her bud molten. 'Gemini and Jupiter!' she exclaimed, making the ramrod Foxe chuckle.
She collapsed limply and lay beside him on the bed, panting and giggling.
Norah took over, kneeling beside him, dangling her breasts in his face. He reached, then captured them, raising his head and tonguing the peaks, making the nipples instantly harden. Then he pulled her around and down onto him, so that her buttocks were nestled against his belly, his hardness prodding between her legs. His arms snaked about her, one squeezing possessively upon a breast, the other cupping her mound with its forest of crinkly curls. Then he traced a finger down through her warm, moist folds. She shuddered with pleasure, rubbing her buttocks against him. He wasted no time. He put his engorged tip to her spot and worked in. It wasn't easy because of the angle, but with his hand to guide him in and keep him there safe, a deep, satisfyingly tight penetration was achieved.
Norah gasped with delight. 'Sir, you're so big. I never expected ... never hoped ... Ooh my ...'
He growled low against her ear and began to thrust fiercely, her soft body moulding itself the surer against him, cramming as closely as it was possible to get. His hand between her legs, his artist's fingers delicately probing her folds, Foxe brought her quickly to the peak of pleasure. She arched and throbbed against him, his finger stroking and torturing long after the more violent waves of delight had washed over her.
Then he slipped out of Norah, leaving her to shudder and sigh happily on her back, and turned his attention to Clara once more.
She was naught but a black shadow beside him on the bed. He felt for her, with his searching fingers, making pictures in his mind. He turned her onto her belly with a pillow beneath her hips and caressed her liquefied legs apart.
Clara lay sated and limp, issuing acquiescent murmurs. Foxe raised her arse, knelt between her legs and

entered her from behind. He went in so deep and full, so deliciously, that Clara soon became aroused again and began to coo encouragement.
He pushed against her, his cods slapping her puss, his girth forcing her wide. He came with a violent series of jerks, clenching his teeth upon any outcry, mindful of the night time silence of the house. He stayed buried deep in the woman until the last throes of passion had receded, then he pulled out, making her groan as if bereft.
He collapsed between them and drifted languidly on the verge of sleep. He didn't know when he dropped off to sleep, or when they quit his room, but come the morning when he woke, they were gone.
'I cannot spare much time' said Horace, standing stiffly at the desk in his grand new study. 'I am a very busy man.'
'I quite understand, sir. I shall work, as much as I'm able, from the sketches I am presently executing, and shall call upon your good self as little as possible,' said Foxe. He was wearing only breeches and a shirt on so hot a day, his sleeves rolled up and a calico apron protecting his front from any accidental messing with his materials. Leads, pastels and pen and ink washes invariably left him with more than stained fingers.
Horace had insisted upon the setting and the pose. Foxe wasn't about to argue. If the pompous ass wanted to look like a jumped-up tradesman putting on airs and graces, so be it. His money was good; that was all Foxe was concerned with. If a man paid in advance — a rarity indeed - he could pose buck naked with a daffodil stuck up his arse for all Foxe cared.
Horace stood erect and immaculate in a new frock coat, waistcoat and breeches bought especially for his full-length portrait. He stood at his new mahogany desk with its tooled green leather top, upon which had been artistically placed some of the more expensive new tomes from the bookcases behind him.

Obviously, thought Foxe with disappointment, the man wanted to look like every other rich man and petty noble immortalised on canvas that season. He felt he could have painted such an unexacting study blindfold. He would be hard pressed not to show his boredom. Still, at least the execution of it should be over and done with quick enough.
'So, sir,' said Joshua Foxe conversationally, 'your new house is all but finished?'
'Aye,' said Horace, just his mouth moving. "There are just a few minor finishing touches. You know the sort of thing - mirrors, mouldings, chandeliers and wall sconces. A spot of decorative painting here and there, though most rooms are complete. I must say I like the fashionable new colours - the plums and jades, the cobalt and powder blues. Such a change from oaken wainscoting.'
'I agree entirely. Paints and mouldings give the rooms in these newly proportioned houses a whole new dimension and a feel of light and space. And I see you have embraced the new concepts in furniture as laid down by Master Chippendale in his book of patterns and examples.'
Horace beamed proudly and fondled the serpentine back of the chair pulled up to his desk. It pleased him that Foxe had noticed.  want only the best.'
'Quite so. Who does not? Just as long as you can afford it.'
 can, sir, I can. Though I believe 'tis a short-sighted gentleman who is forever thinking on the cost of things.'
Foxe mixed ochre and burnt umber on his palette and diluted the resulting shade to apply his wash. He worked quickly; absorbed yet quite able to hold a conversation of the desultory, untaxing calibre that Sir Horace required.
Within half an hour he was sitting back and taking a critical look at what he'd achieved. Yes, he felt he'd captured Balfour rather well, the pompous ass, the popinjay. "There. Done. I can now work from these

sketches and studies, sir. Am I at liberty to enter this room when necessary to work on the background and foreground subjects? Some of the books on the desk will need intensive work to be shown to their best effect. Minor details are sometimes so important.'
'Feel free' said Horace, glad to be allowed to drop his pose. His feet were killing him.
'Were I more fashionable and therefore more expensive, I could afford an apprentice to paint the aforementioned parts' said Foxe, wryly.
'It will come, Mister Foxe. I for one shall recommend you to friends and acquaintances if I'm pleased with your work.'
'Why, thank you, sir. That is most benevolent of you.'
Horace waved aside the other's gratitude, insincere though it was, and laughed condescendingly. 'We shall make you famous yet, young man.'
Foxe packed away his sketches, his paint box and dust sheet - which had been covering the new carpet, just in case - and bowed his way out of the room.
He was so tall and moved so gracefully; was beautiful as well as handsome, that people watched him wherever he was.
Horace watched him leave with raised eyebrows.
Catherine watched his approach, her forehead lining in a frown. She thought about turning away, escaping through the green baize door into the servant's domain below stairs but no, she wasn't going to do that. Not in her own home. The man was naught but a fop and a dandy, and he was very much aware of the effect his strange looks had on people. Women in particular. She stood her ground.
He inclined his head. 'Good morning, Lady Catherine.'
She gave him a curt nod. 'Mister Foxe. Horace's portrait is underway?'
He nodded. 'The preliminary sketches.'
'Might I look?'
"They are very rudimentary.'
'Still I should like to see them.'

'Very well.' He handed them over forthwith.
She perused them, her tawny eyebrows lifting expressively. His technique was to be admired. Still her frown persisted. She looked up and caught him smirking. She scowled. 'Do I imagine it, or have you made him look a little foolish?'
He affected an air of indignant innocence. 'I assure you, Lady Catherine, I've painted your husband as I truly see him, as I have been instructed to portray him. Why, Sir Horace chose the pose himself. Foolish? Surely not. Rather I should have said "honest and normal".'
She arched an eyebrow. She didn't believe him for a minute. She warned: 'I shall be keeping a close eye upon your progress.'
'I am honoured by such attention,' he declared, bowing low as she swept past. Her silken skirts brushed his legs, and her perfume assailed his nostrils. As he watched her go, his smile reached his eyes and stayed there, making their startling darkness glint.

Chapter Five

Catherine walked the grounds. It was hot and yet there was no sun. In fact it was foggy. The thick mist wafted around her dainty ankles, hiding her footfalls. Before her, out of the mist, rose the Temple of Venus, primarily a circle of classical columns topped by a metallic dome of turquoise verdigris.
She looked down at her feet encased in silver, heeled slippers with diamond-studded buckles. They hardly appeared to be touching the ground; she was gliding.
'Like a fairy' said her companion.
She turned, showing no surprise at his presence, and laughed mildly. 'Mister Foxe, you do so like to flatter. Do not think that I am impressed. I am not a naive laundrymaid. I am worldly-wise. No, don't laugh. I am. Truly. I have had a lover you know. Horace has not been the only man in my life.'
Mr Foxe strode beside Catherine, dressed in silver, his stockings snowy white. His dark locks were hidden beneath a white, powdered wig. He shone. Dazzled. When he gave her a condescending smile she almost had to squint at the intense glare from his startling teeth.
'You are an innocent, Lady Catherine, despite your protestations to the contrary. A child within a woman's body.'

'I disagree.'
"That is your privilege.'
'Would an innocent go with you to the temple of Venus? Hey, answer me that, my good fellow. I know what you intend to do, yet I don't run scared, now do I? Boldly I shall face the inevitable.'
His pace didn't slacken. He strode on boldly through the concealing mist, turning his head to probe Catherine's innermost thoughts with his eyes.
She blushed under the intensity of his gaze and was suddenly acutely aware that her gown was cut too low; that her torturously tight stomacher was forcing her breasts up beyond the lace-trimmed confines of her neckline. When she glanced down she could see her own nipples, rosy and erect, pushing over the fabric of her silver brocade gown. Joshua Foxe could see them too, she sensed; he gave himself away by the lascivious way in which he was licking his lips.
He reached across the yard that separated them and grasped Catherine's hand. Tell me about your lover, my sweet Catherine. Tell me, although I shall likely die of jealousy.'
She grinned mischievously. 'He was like a god. A man of stamina, of staying power. His penis was fourteen inches long.'
There was silence. Then a chuckle from Foxe. 'Length doesn't matter. Tis the girth which is all important. A woman is most sensitive where she is entered. It is stimulation to that area which makes a woman see stars. I myself am enormous girth-wise. Neither do I lack in length.'
'You are a boastful knave, Mister Foxe.'
'How can the truth be boastful? I am but stating a fact.'
I don't believe you, you popinjay. Let me see this mighty member then, sir. This sword of pleasure. This great gift to womankind.'
'Madam, you scoff!'

'Yes, indeed I do. Down with your breeches, man, and let us see this eighth wonder of the world.'
They were at the steps of the temple. He caught Catherine to him and scooped her up in his arms. The move was effortless, as if she weighed no more than a feather. He carried her up the steps and laid her down at the very centre of the temple floor. It was cold, harsh marble, yet Catherine felt it rather as the softest mossy knoll.
She reclined, smiling up at him challengingly; her skirts lay up around her thighs, her stockinged legs set at a comfortable angle, lolling open. He could see white thigh, vast inches of it, tantalising and provocative, but he couldn't see any higher.
He towered over her, too beautiful to be true, and began, one by one, to undo the buttons that fastened his breeches.
His member seemed to unravel and spring forth, displaying itself for a disbelieving Catherine's delectation. It was so very, very long and so hugely proportioned. It swayed around like an equine naughty bit out of control, pale, fat and ridged with veins.
Catherine's mouth fell open. 'Mister Foxe, I may have underestimated you!' Never had there been such an understatement.
She could smell the maleness of him. Her knees trembled and her senses reeled.
'There, madam, was I boasting?'
Humbly Catherine shook her head and swallowed hard. 'No, sir.' She shrank from him. Tray be so good as to put it away.'
'But you want me, madam. You told me so. 'Tis what we came here for, to consummate the passion we have for each other and cannot deny.'
Catherine shook her head and recoiled, her eyes riveted upon his erect, threatening stalk. T fear I can't ... couldn't. You are too awesome, sir. I could not take you.'
"Then I'll not give you all. Just six inches, say ... very carefully administered, um?'

He was so persuasive. And Catherine was so hot. Her puss cried out for him and the monster between his legs, even while logic told her it was an impossibility.
He lay beside her, took her hand, and placed it over the helmeted head of the aggressor, letting her feel how warm and silky it was, quieting her qualms. 'There, see, he's not so bad. Oh, how he loves your touch, lovely Catherine.'
'Mister Foxe, remember your place. Address me as Lady Catherine, if you please'
He pushed her back and kissed her with fresh insolence, of a mind to do nothing like remember his place. His lips were gentle at first, dry and warm. Then the pressure increased. His tongue slipped between her lips and fenced with hers. The sensation of thrust and slip turned her sex to pure fire. She moved close to him, fingers around his lush girth increasing their pressure unconsciously. Her legs lolled and her hips strained. She rubbed her mound against his thigh.
He grinned, his dazzling teeth blinding her. His shadow fell upon her and he slipped a finger down through her wetness, flickering the tip delicately over her bud, then let it move on, to her threshold. With ease it slipped into her. Gently he explored and stimulated.
'Want me?' he asked.
She had a dreamy look in her silver eyes. She murmured and nodded, lying trustingly on her back, her legs wide to his intimate caresses. Her fingers continued tormenting the sensitive head of his monster. He took away the hand, kissing the fingers that had pleasured him and then put the head of his phallus to Catherine's ripe spot.
Her look was blissful as the first inch pressed in and waggled, stretching her wide. She smiled up happily. He pushed deeper, moving leisurely, fired by her undeniable appreciation of his circumference. He made circular motions with his loins and grinned as she gasped in delight, clutching at his shoulders.
He was delicious, marvellous. Her arms went around

his neck and she pulled him closer, mindlessly greedy; eyes widening and a gasp on her lips as more inches slipped home. Momentarily, she panicked and struggled. He kissed her deeply, his tongue lulling her, turning her limbs to liquid fire. She relaxed. He went deeper, deeper.
He was filling her, forcing her wide, dragging at her entrance folds. His tongue darted. His penis pressed at her innermost secrets, knowing every inch of her. He was possessing her, mastering her; touching her more thoroughly both in mind and body than she had ever imagined possible. Her mind leapt beyond all bounds and her body shattered in a deathlike flood of sublime pleasure.
She screamed mindlessly, all senses out of control. Foxe was completely buried in her, every last inch of him. He cupped buttocks in his hands and ground against her, each measured thrust bringing him closer to fulfilment. Catherine gasped and fought, her nails raking him. She screamed again but sounded quite different this time.
'M'lady, m'lady, are you alright?'
Catherine opened her eyes, blinking against the glare of a candle. Her maid was bending over her with a frown of concern. For a moment she had no idea where she was. Then she realised she was lying abed, hot and clammy beneath her feather-filled quilt and snowy white sheets. She sighed raggedly with relief. 'It's nothing, Mary. Just a dream. Go back to bed.'
Things were never the same again after the arrival of Joshua Foxe. His very presence was disruptive, even when he wasn't personally responsible. The female servants became lax and unconscientious in their work; they were, Lady Catherine continually scolded them, spending far too much time thinking of things other than their jobs. They were warned to buck up their ideas or else face the possibility of dismissal. It did little good to go on at them though, she knew. Under normal circumstances they functioned efficiently, were good, hard

working girls, but just let Foxe walk amongst them or, God forbid, bestow a friendly smile, and their brains seemed to turn to mush.
And Catherine really was no better. She had to avoid him like the plague to maintain any kind of peace of mind. She unsuccessfully tried to lose herself in solitary reading from the Good Book. She couldn't get him out of her mind.
Horace's portrait was almost complete. It was a good .likeness. Mister Foxe was indeed an accomplished artist; Harold had chosen well. And yet whenever Catherine studied the oil painting she felt she was looking at a caricature. Certainly it had been executed with a frank, even cruel brush hand. But no one else passed comment. Others were apparently impressed. Couldn't they see that Foxe had made Sir Horace look like a jumped-up windbag, a pretentious country bumpkin? Or maybe they did and were just being diplomatic. Perhaps they thought it unwise to comment on something so near to the truth. Catherine decided to do likewise. But it made the prospect of sitting for Foxe something she positively dreaded. Would he expose the real her?
It was Sunday. In half an hour it would be time to leave in the family carriage for morning service at the church. Catherine, perfumed and powdered, and wearing her finest violet silk daydress, left the others at the breakfast table and stepped out side onto the terrace. The urns atop the balustrades had been planted up with stocks, nasturtiums, geraniums and variegated hedera that trailed profusely. She sniffed the stocks, picked one and fastened it into her silver brooch so that the scent would rise later, combating the dank odour of the church.
She rounded the corner to the side of the house and came across one of the upstairs maids very furtively spying in through Foxe's window. The maid must have seen Catherine's approach out the corner of her eye, for she straightened briskly, tried unsuccessfully to adopt an innocent air, and scurried off in the other direction before her mistress could think to call her back.

Catherine cocked an eyebrow, and intrigued, continued at the same pace until she'd come parallel with the floor-length windows into the artist's studio-cum-sleeping quarters. There she paused and peeped, her eyes widening and mouth curling upwards in amusement.
Joshua Foxe was in the process of taking a bath. No wonder the maid had been so illicitly engrossed. Catherine tarried, assured that the man, who had his back half-turned towards her, had no idea of her presence. Leisurely, she admired him. Slim, pale, and lightly muscled, his hair gleamed darkly like a coach's varnish, sleek with the water. It hung down to his shoulders, like sable. Wet, and slightly waving, it made him look a little wild.
In time he rose from the coopered rub, and Catherine drew in her breath. She could see his reflection in a large mirror on the far wall. She observed his tight buttocks and his dormant sex, laying down his leg. He bent, picked up a bath sheet and quickly patted himself all over before securing it around his waist.
He tugged on the bell pull beside the fireplace and two male servants came in to heft the tub of water away between them. A maid arrived after them, her arms full of freshly ironed linen. She bobbed a curtsy to him, and laid out a fresh shirt and cravat upon the bed. Only when she looked up, blushing and smiling, following Foxe with her eyes, did Catherine recognise her as the same maid who had been spying upon him from the terrace.
Foxe gave her a coin and Catherine waited for her to quit the room, as she was eager to see him go about the business of getting dressed. But the maid didn't go. Rather she perched her bottom on the edge of his bed and cast him a coquettish grin, saying something that Catherine couldn't even begin to guess at.
Foxe frowned with theatrical severity and wagged a finger at her. She pouted, undeterred, and took her skirts into her hands, raising the hems seductively and slowly.

Foxe referred to the time on the mantle clock, nodded and dropped his towel, swift and businesslike.
He stood between her parted legs, smoothing her milky thighs above the black woollen stockings; palming her mound before stroking down through her crease with a gentle finger.
Catherine gasped. She was shocked and disturbed. Absurdly jealous. He was not the man of her dreams, his penis some mythically proportioned instrument of pleasure and terrible dominance. This Foxe was a mere mortal, with a mortal's body. He was still impressive for all that, however. He was beautifully endowed, the stalk that reared from his bush of dark curls being long, and of considerable girth.
The maid's eyes devoured it. He ran the head through her wetness and then inched into her depths, his buttocks clenching; thrusting and jerking.
She wore a happy expression, as she wrapped her legs around him, and she crossed her wrists at the back of his head. He took her swiftly and carelessly, using what had been so freely offered. He pushed up, his hands holding her firmly about the buttocks, keeping her still to accept the force of his powerful strokes.
The girl's face was now gripped by intense emotion. Her teeth were gritted, her glazed eyes raised to the ceiling as she allowed her head to fall back. Catherine could hear nothing, but the maid was undoubtedly making little noises of pleasure each time Foxe filled her with his gorgeous length.
Her crisis evidently arrived, and she clutched at him, her face ecstatic, her mouth open wide to emit her cries. Foxe permitted himself a smug smile and then allowed himself to come.
Catherine watched his expression in the full-length mirror. Then she realised, to her horror, that he was watching her. Her hand flew to her mouth and she leapt sideways out of view of the window. Oh damnation, she could die of the shame! She sped off in mindless panic.

Heaven forbid that anyone should see her. And how was she to face the obnoxious Foxe?
When the carriage drew up at the steps before the house the family climbed decorously aboard. Father and son in one seat. Mother and daughters in the other. There was little room inside because of their paniers. The women put up parasols while the men adjusted tricornes.
'Drive on, Squires' instructed Horace.
The two servant's wagons pulled around from the side of the hall. They were full. Maids and flunkies in their Sunday best - sprigged cottons and muslins, homespuns and cotton cords - crammed the bench seats. Not all the servants could attend church. There were always several who had to stay behind to see to the smooth running of the hall and make preparations for the Sunday luncheon.
The wagons travelled a discreet distance behind the Balfour family carriage. Foxe sat with the upper servants - the upstairs maids, the footmen, the assistant cook and the butler.
'Laundrymaids have their eye on you, I see, sir,' commented the butler, dryly.
Foxe feigned an amused disinterest. 'Really? And such pretty laundresses too,' he said. He winked across at them, waving from the other wagon.
'You seem to have the looks that women most appreciate' said the butler.
'I have what God gave me, sir. Those laundrymaids, are they perchance named Norah and Clara?'
Grimes, the butler, shook his head. 'No, sir. They be Jane and Debs. Indeed I don't believe we have anyone working on the estate called Norah or Clara.'
Foxe frowned, puzzled. Apparently those ladies of the night had been playing games with him. He chuckled so low as to be virtually inaudible. 'My mistake.'
He watched the scenery, looking ahead to the leading carriage and its fastidious occupants in their silks and lace. In particular he studied the uncomfortable looking

Lady Catherine. Even from a distance, the beautiful Catherine was making a point of looking anywhere but at him. He didn't blame her, Peeping Tomasina. He couldn't stop himself from smirking.
The Balfour family pew was a grand affair, set at a right angle to the preacher's pulpit, in order that the premier worshippers of the parish needn't crick their necks whilst hearing the good word.
But there was another reason why the two benches, set one behind the other, with their velvet upholstered soft seats and intricately carved latched gates, were set facing across the nave instead of towards the choir like the rest of the congregation. It was so that the Balfours could keep an eye on those who attended and voice their disapproval at those who didn't. Unfortunately for Catherine, this day it also meant that the Balfours were themselves on continual display. And from the moment that the congregation had gained their allotted pews, she was aware of Mister Foxe. He was sitting amongst the body of family servants, constantly watching her. She didn't look his way, but she could sense him all the same.
She found herself fiddling with her Bible, hymnal and page marker, then with the lace at her cuffs and the bows on her stomacher. She made a point of positioning herself behind Horace as they sat, listening to the lay preacher reading the first lesson. She was thus hoping to keep out of Foxe's line of vision. But Horace moved by degrees, sinking lower in his pew, succumbing to a boredom-induced doze. He cared nothing for good manners. If a preacher couldn't keep his attention with a good sermon or a lively delivered lesson then Horace wasn't about to feign it.
All the while, Catherine was aware of her increased exposure, but had a terrible urge to look along the nave to Foxe. The urge grew and grew, until it became uncontrollable, just like when one is requested not to do something trivial; like Frances only last week getting

caught in the rain and running indoors drenched, shouting, 'Don't look at me, I'm a fright.' Of course, the very first thing one does is look! Having told herself not to look Foxe's way, Catherine now couldn't stop herself. She was compelled. He was looking directly at her, of course, and smirking.
Catherine sang a hymn, but was no longer singing the right words. She came to a halt, and flustered, a hand went to her bosom. It lay palm down there and she felt a blush suffuse her flesh, creep up her throat and stain her cheeks. She was so embarrassed she wanted to just disappear. Instead, she kicked Horace on the shin, waking him up and she glared at him. He came to with a snaffle and lumbered to his feet. His hymn book was open but upside down in his hands and his mouth merely mimed the words.
Still Foxe was watching her, darkly beautiful and insolent. He was dressed all in black save for his white ruffled shirt and cravat, and he stood erect and rapier slim beside the rather rotund Grimes.
Catherine's eyes darted back and forth over him, looking away but always coming back for just one more look. She noted the cut of his suit and the elegance of his hands. Her own hands had become clammy and, like some shy and innocent maid made aware of her sexuality for the very first time, Catherine scrunched them amongst her fine cotton lawn skirts one by one, their dampness badly creasing the crisply ironed material.
She must stop this immediately. Yes, she must. She was a married woman and she had no business thinking along the lines her mind now travelled. Such thoughts as her's had no business in church.
He had caught her spying on him in a most intimate moment. That was bad enough. But what was much worse was that he had seen what was in her eyes. Lust. She was doubly shamed. A spy and a wanton!
She had seen him with the maid and now all Catherine could think of was that she'd like him to do that to her also. And he knew it; he knew something about her and

her character that nobody else did, which she'd managed to keep so well hidden for so long.
That knowledge put him at an advantage and of a sudden Catherine felt acutely vulnerable. She prayed he was gentleman enough not to use it, but even as she was thinking it, her eyes strayed once more in the gorgeous Foxe's direction.
His next gesture was to fill her with nothing but disquiet. She gasped noiselessly, and could feel her cheeks burning, for he was licking his lips. His pink dart of tongue caressing every contour, searching out every corner, wiggling, probing, and all the while he was grinning at Catherine. His eyes burned, leaving her in no doubt as to where he'd really have liked to explore with that persistent little sensor.
Later that afternoon their paths crossed in the hall. For a moment Catherine looked panicked, and seemed undecided whether to turn tail and speedily exit into a convenient drawing room, or stay and face him. Instead, she mustered her reserves of dignity and hauteur, cast him one withering glance down the length of her Roman nose and swept past him, in a haze of lemon verbena scent, as if he didn't exist.
There were two inns at Munsey village: The Talbot and The Leather Bottle. The latter was acknowledged as the rowdier. There the local farm labourers, travelling tinkers and even the occasional gipsy with a few coins in his pocket, drank in the homey bar with its sawdusted floor and rustic tables and chairs. There was little choice as to what one might drink: ale, cider or an inferior, breath-stopping, tongue-numbing Genever long steeped with bitter sloes.
The yeoman farmers, the miller, smith and village baker, as well as those who were deemed their superiors, patronised The Talbot. It was cleaner and brighter. A fire burned cheerily in the hearth during the winter months and the landlady's menu was changed regularly to tempt

a hearty appetite. Brass candlesticks lit gloomier corners and pewter gleamed on mantle and sideboard. Here the clientele sat on high-backed oak settles and drank ale from burnished tankards, wine from pewter goblets and the best Genever from blue glass snifters.
The squire and Sir Horace used The Talbot if they wished to visit a local hostelry and escape their domestic confines. Ralph frequented it also but, after dining well, he often left, wandering down the street and disappearing inside the plank-doored portal of The Leather Bottle. He would oft times be greeted by a wave of music, unwashed body smells and a thick fog of pipe tobacco smoke.
Many nights he spied Joshua Foxe through the grey haze and sometimes he joined him. But not tonight. Tonight he wanted to sit quietly in a corner and get morosely drunk with all speed, to blot out Dulcie's scathing words of that evening. God, how they stung.
She hated him; loathed him, she had said. If he were the last man on this earth he would never mean more to her than the slimiest, creepiest thing to crawl from beneath a stone in the road.
He'd laughed in her face, affecting an expression of total indifference; but the words, as always, had found their mark, had wounded him to the very heart.
Joshua - seated in another quiet, secluded corner - had seen Ralph enter. Their eyes had met but it was patently obvious that Sir Horace's son wanted to keep his own company that night. Ralph had let his gaze move on, conveniently 'not seeing' Joshua.
Joshua didn't take umbrage; everyone needed to be alone sometimes, or perhaps Ralph was meeting someone else. Joshua wondered on this for a moment only and then forgot all about him.
This night the artist was drinking ale. It seemed safest. He'd tried the Genever but once, and the rough cider was definitely suspect. He was well aware of the fact that some cider makers dropped a dead mouse or rat

into the fermenting bin to improve the final flavour, but Joshua surmised that there was something else besides in the present brew; and that it was something far worse.
Despite his qualms about the drinks on offer, he would never have swapped this dubious hovel for the masculine gentility of The Talbot. He loved The Leather Bottle with its rowdy atmosphere on a Friday night, its easygoing, often drunken landlord and its buxom slattern of a landlady. There was no denying that she had the most spectacular figure of any woman in Munsey. Many were prettier - indeed Sheba was plain-faced and raw-boned - but none had so magnificent a bosom. Men came from afar to be served by her and take an appreciative look at it.
Sheba Gurney knew what she had and made the most of it. Every man who came and gawped and lingered over just one more pint, laying down one coin, then another, was feathering her nest for the future. After all, looks didn't last for ever and bosoms were notorious for eventually sagging.
She wore a black, boned girdle over her scoop-necked, broderie anglaise-edged blouse. Gipsy fashion, this drew in her ample waist and exaggerated her voluptuous hips and mesmerising bosom. Her voluminous, scarlet wool skirt was hemmed to just above the ankles, showing off grey wool stockings and practical black, buckled shoes. With her red-painted mouth and head of heavy, curling chestnut hair, she made a fetching picture. Unfortunately, when she opened her mouth, her voice made one cringe as it was shrill and squawking. Her laugh - which she did often - was a veritable witchlike cackle. Her male admirers, however, generously overlooked so minor a fault.
Whenever Joshua went there he took his sketchbook and drew, one quick sketch after another, portraying that lovely body every which way. Sometimes he became so engrossed in his labour of love that his ale stood on the tabletop, neglected and flat.
Sheba  would  come over, frowning with theatrical

sterness. 'Drink, Mister Foxe, drink. You're loitering in my space, so the least you can do is down my ale.'
He grinned, obediently taking deep gulps to please her. 'You are a joyous distraction, Mistress Gurney.'
She laughed, those rounded, jutting breasts juddering. 'So I've been told ... many times.' She moved off, still smiling, clearing mugs from another table and wishing the departing customers a cheery goodbye.
A fiddler played a shanty and some half dozen tipsy farm workers linked arms in comradely fashion and sang at the tops of their voices.
Joshua started on a blank sheet, feverishly sketching the group. He worked fast, frustrated and yet exhilarated by their inability to stay still even for a moment. This was delightful for him. It beat painting stuffy aristocrats any day. Correction. Most aristocrats. There were exceptions. He looked forward, with immense expectant pleasure, to painting Lady Catherine and the charmingly innocent Frances Balfour.
Sheba's daughter, the young and pretty Ellen, sauntered over to his table with, she hoped, a captivating sway of her hips. Her tin tray was full of empties, her breasts, glimpsed over the top, non-existent in comparison to her well-endowed mother. She had an excitingly lewd smile though, and bared arms, slim and palely smooth like alabaster. Joshua couldn't help but reach out and stroke one.
'Mother says you're t'drink or go home.'
Til pay her in drawings, tell her,' bargained Joshua.
She had been expecting this. Ellen smiled and indicated the walls around the bar. There were already several drawings of Sheba nailed there. 'She told me to tell you she's got quite enough likenesses now, thank you. And, besides, the customers keep stealing them away. It's pay up or get out, Mister Foxe.'
She was so close that her knee was touching his leg. He raised it a few inches, then lowered it, caressing her fleetingly through the material of her skirt. His smile was winning and his dark eyes smouldered.

'I've naught but a penny left on me. Perhaps we can compromise? Is there anything I can do for you?'
She smiled coyly, a smirk touching the corners of her mouth. 'Give me your penny and I'll fetch you another tankard of ale.'
With a wink he handed over the coin, tracing his hand down over her thigh before it was retracted.
She tossed her head provocatively and was off, the sway of her hips more pronounced than ever. He drank his fill that night on the strength of his tentative promise.
By the time he put down his charcoal, aching and bleary-eyed, most of his fellow drinkers - including a staggering Ralph - had departed for home. Only three men remained on the table nearest the rough trestle that served as the bar. They were all sleepy drunk, one of them already snoring with his head down on his folded arms. The others were murmuring drunken sentences that seemed to have no beginnings nor endings.
'Home you go' bade Sheba, hefting two of them up by their coat collars. Somehow they dragged the third up with them, temporarily interrupting his snoring.
Murmuring and wondering aloud as to where they were and what time it was, they half-fell and were half-pushed out of the door.
'Night night,' Sheba called cheerily after them. 'See you all tomorrow.'
Whatever garbled replies there might have been were swallowed up by the distance and the darkness.
Sheba bolted the door and doused most of the candles, while Ellen went back and forth clearing the tables. Joshua rose, yawning and stretching.
'Sit, Mister Foxe. It be time for you t'pay up,' said the landlady, pouring a tankard of ale and coming over to his table. With a hand on his shoulder she assisted him back onto his seat and then, while he sat there blinking groggily, she loosened the drawstrings of her blouse and emptied forth her wondrous breasts.
Joshua blinked the harder to clear his vision, then

reached out delightedly to touch, but Sheba slapped the hand away.
As he watched, fascinated, she dipped each globular, heavy breast in turn into the foaming head on the beer in the tankard. And as she drew them forth, dripping ale and covered with creamy bubbles, her large, hardened nipples could be clearly seen.
She set down the tankard and lifted her skirts to just above the knees, parting her legs so that she could shimmy astride Joshua. With a groan of longing, he caught her and brought her close, head swooping and mouth fastening onto her heavy bosom, his fingers squeezing and kneading.
Once, for a moment, he surfaced. 'Your husband?'
'Safe abed in a drunken stupor' Sheba assured.
He showed no restraint then. A hand went beneath her skirts, finding her wide open to him, her pussy lips warm and plumply succulent, her juices fast flowing. She quivered and groaned a little.
He released himself from his breeches, the turgid shaft springing forth eagerly and its angry red head glistening.
'Ooh what a gert big naughty thing' trilled Sheba, voice a-quiver and tongue running over her lips lasciviously. Put it in me, do. Now, yes. Don't make me wait, you handsome devil. I been a-hearing all manner of rumour 'bout you, me artist friend ... that y'had a beauty of a cock and no end of ideas how t'please a woman with it.'
'All gross exaggeration' vowed Joshua, smiling wickedly and slipping his length into Sheba forthwith.
She sighed with delight as its girth explored her depths for the first time, forcing her wide and filling her, going on and on until she could feel him pushing at her very core.
'No exaggeration at all' she corrected him on a blissful shudder, her body rising up and then falling with a gasp as she swallowed him all up.
He held her hips and took to suckling again, his thrusts

going deeply up into her plunging, trembling sex and bringing her quickly to a very noisy and exceedingly juicy climax.
After a while to calm herself and savour the already fading moment, Sheba climbed off Joshua and staggered off to start on the washing up of drinking vessels in the back kitchen.
Ellen came forth and began to clear his table, watching his huge, unsatisfied shaft while he drank thirstily. He looked her up and down with his near black eyes and let his gaze linger on her breasts and between her legs, stroking himself from base to tip just once. She watched hungrily.
'Yes?' he asked.
She nodded and put down the tray on another table. She then came to perch herself on the table before him, lay back and opened her legs wantonly.
He stood up and drank his ale while he ran the palm of his left hand up her inner thighs, moving aside the skirt that hid her eagerly offered pussy.
She was wide open, pink and moist within the lips and folds bordered by dark curls. Her bud stood proud, pointing or, rather, beckoning. Joshua carefully poured a little of his beer over the dark mound and watched Ellen wriggle, gasping and giggling, causing the drink to trickle amongst her folds, making them glisten.
He held her open, with his hands on her thighs, and licked every secretive inch, running the oral sensor around her bud and then down through her mysteries until it found her hidden delights and plunged into them.
He tongued her expertly, giving no quarter and making Ellen cry out softly then louder; on and on, as if in agony, though truly she was in the throes of an unimaginable ecstasy. Her body writhed as her delirious lips murmured an endless stream of nonsense. Only when he'd brought her to an exhausted state of surfeited delight, her whole body limp, and her pussy red and

wet from so much delicious attention, did Joshua sink his hard length into her, filling her tightness and savagely thrusting towards his own heady release. She came again, squealing as his meaty length pulled out and plunged in, ramming in her lush wetness.
Afterwards she lay satiated upon the table, grinning broadly, her legs still wide open, the cool air on her pussy pleasant and welcomed. She throbbed and contracted still, though the shaft that had brought the ultimate pleasure was now stowed away once more in Mister Foxe's breeches.
He kissed her inner thigh, smiling to see how she trembled. 'Goodnight.'
'Night, Mister Foxe. Such payment as I and me mother did receive this night will be most acceptable any time y'do fancy a pint at The Leather Bottle.'
'You are most kind, Miss Gurney. I shall bear it in mind.' And so saying, he let himself out.
The key turned in the lock. Dulcie was ready for him.
He stepped through, carrying a three-pronged silver candelabra and, thwack, she struck him over the head with her ebony handled hairbrush. The feel and sound of the blow made her feel physically sick.
Ralph crumpled to the floor, groaning, his eyes rolling upwards in his head. She bent over him, fretting suddenly, unable to flee as she'd intended, touching the gash on his forehead. Her fingertips turned bloody.
'Oh, Ralph, what've I done? Oh God
She caught him beneath the arms and started dragging him to the bed. It wasn't easy. On the third attempt and breaking out into a sweat, she managed to heft him atop the high, feather-mattressed monstrosity.
He groaned feebly.
'Please, Ralph, don't die.'
She ran to a drawer, yanking it open, dragging out a cotton petticoat. She held a clumsy wad against his forehead, chewing her lip.
Why didn't she want him to die? It couldn't be that

she cared for him in some absurd way, could it? Perhaps she didn't wish him any real harm.
To counteract the thought she spoke more harshly. 'Ralph? Ralph, can you hear me?'
He only groaned. She looked at the wound. It had stopped bleeding. Anxiously she waited, cradling his black head in her lap, willing him to consciousness and yet fearing it.
He was so sharply handsome with his sculpted face and raven locks. If only he weren't such a devil. She sighed. If only he'd been born somebody else's son.
He moved, threw his hand out and muttered some garbled nonsense, eyes opening and blinking foggily at Dulcie. He frowned and winced, squirmed around and clamped steely fingers about her shoulders, glaring down at her and trying not to think about the awful throbbing in his temple.
'You bitch!'
She struggled then, wondering why she'd wasted her sympathy upon him. 'I wish I'd hit you harder,' she said.
Instantly he calmed, his grip gentle. 'Why didn't you?'
She shrugged, then glared up at him with her usual defiance and loathing. Everything was back to normal between them.
'Answer me!'
'I never could abear t'see folks suffering. Not even the most undeserving knave such as yourself.'
He was looking deep into her eyes, as if he could see the truth there which no words of belligerence could mask. He sneered knowingly.
'You care for me, Dulcie. You care for me much more than you'd care to admit.'
'Poppycock!'
'I think not.'
She struggled some more, but with no great determination. Her fright at nearly killing him had taken the wind out of her sails somewhat.

He secured her wrists and ankles to the heavily carved posts of the bed and pulled the velvet curtains tight shut so that Dulcie could barely make out his shape at all. Then he stripped off his coat and waistcoat and removed the black ribbon that secured his ponytail.
He fell upon her apparently repulsed body, kissing the breasts that thrust up against her bodice. Kissing the full mouth in a face that moved stubbornly from side to side in order to avoid such bestowed tokens of affection.
He loosened her bodice, undoing the bows of her stomacher, untying the lacings of her corset beneath, and pushed her skirts up her silken smooth legs, devoid of stockings.
Her skin thrilled at the touch but she made the expected noises of rage and disgust, snarling at him, writhing as her withering words gnashed out.
'Swine. Fiend. Don't think you'll get away with this.'
He laughed wickedly in the dark. 'I rather think that I shall.'
'Not indefinitely. Not always, sir. You shall get your comeuppance.'
If that day should ever come, sweet Dulcie, I think maybe you shall be the last person to welcome it.'
'Codswallop!'
He chuckled, and kissed her between the legs, taking her unawares.
She squealed, and her body stiffened. No matter how hard she peered into the dark she couldn't see him. But she could smell him, smell the male scent of him. She could hear him, his heavy, thick-as-velvet breathing. She sensed him like some terrible menace that frightened and excited her in equal, overwhelming measures.
For several moments there was no sound, save a heavy silence, then the soft rasping of a modest hinge, the turning of a lid on a pot. Dulcie's hearing became acute, her eyebrows knitting.
'Ralph?'
'I'm still here, my sweeting' he reassured, though he knew cheerily that it would do no such thing.

Her voice was wary. 'What are you doing?'
'Making preparations, my dove. Be patient. It'll be worth it.'
'Ralph?' She was insistent now.
He only laughed softly.
Then she felt a chill and squidgy wetness between her legs, and she bucked as her sex was engulfed; the lips slipping against each other.
'What is it?' she asked. Her voice was shrill.
'Just a special cream. Light, cool and lubricating. It is to assist our play. You see, my love, I shall have you tell me you love me before this day is out. I am determined.'
'Never, never.'
His  fingers  applied  more  of the  delicious  feeling     , cream, and worked it around.
Her mouth opened with a soundless cry of delight. Don't! her mind screamed, but she couldn't bring herself to utter the demand.
His fingers were everywhere. In her curls, her lips, slipping and enticing through every fold of her, pushing into her, caressing her entrance. Then something else pushed into her: large, cold, not Ralph. She'd come to know the feel of his hard penis - the throbbing heat of it.
'What...?'
'A courtesan's toy' he explained. 'A dildo.'
Her prudish, country girl's mind was outraged. 'It's not right. Get it out of me! Now!' As she squirmed it went in deeper.
Ralph played upon her syrupy clitoris with a fingertip.
'Not right? How can something which feels this good not be right, lover?'
'It's ... it's false. It's ...' She felt she was losing the argument. 'I'm not your lover.'
'Then isn't a false phallus preferable to your humble servant's manflesh? Wouldn't you rather be pleasured by a cold, unfeeling lump of ivory than by this wicked mortal who loves you with all his heart?'
She had no answer.

He worked the thing mechanically between her legs. With all the cream to assist it, it plunged back and forth easily. Ralph knelt over her, kissing her breasts and mouth, his free hand stroking her sex, torturing her bud. She groaned and writhed.
He withdrew the instrument and jiggered it about her sensitive opening. She cried out, her cries getting louder and louder, her body jerking against the bestower of pleasure's artful hands, until she fell back, limp and quivering, her mound throbbing in molten delight.
She couldn't refrain from gasping, 'Oh my God, Ralph!'
He smiled in the dark, then unlaced the flap on his breeches and pushed his heated member into her burning flesh. He loosened her bonds and, as he'd expected, her arms and legs wrapped tightly about him, capturing him.
He moved slowly, savouring her warmth, her languid acquiescence. Such possession was a dreamy delight. He kissed her and she kissed him back grudgingly, delighting in the firm warmth of his lips, the slip of his tongue.
His loins battered at her, his root deeply planted. He breathed against her ear, gasping out words of love. Unconsciously she returned them. Little endearments and encouragements, until he came with a cry, his flanks trembling, and his buttocks clenching in spasms.
Such was his tenderness, he decided not to goad her there and then with her admissions of something more than affection for himself. She'd sworn she'd not say she loved him. Yet she had, in those moments when he reached his crisis and carried her along with him once more, when his essence flowed and her body moulded to his, accepted him willingly into her depths.
Horace raised an eyebrow. Catherine frowned. Ralph took his place at the supper table and smiled happily. 'Been in the wars, young man?'

'No, father. Just took a fall from my horse. Hit a stone. Out cold for a moment or two.'
'Are you quite recovered now, dear?' worried his mother, passing his portion of gammon.
'Perfectly fine, mama. Don't fret. I'm as sharp as a knife and shall certainly do this meal justice.'

Chapter Six

The vestibule was lit dazzlingly with a thousand  candles. The chandelier blazed and the wall sconces lit the sweeping staircase with its newly hung portrait of Horace Balfour.
Everyone who entered was obliged to study his fresh new likeness and pass judgement. What they truly thought they kept to themselves. But to Horace and Catherine they gushed with great enthusiasm.
'Good job, Horace. Caught you, by George.'
'It's you, Horace, definitely.'
'You'll have to give me his name. I'd like my Kitty painted.'
Foxe? Never heard of him. Up and coming, you say? The next Reynolds? Could be right, old boy. Admirable work; good technique.'
'Splendid.'
T adore it'
In pairs and groups they entered the newly completed ballroom, with its white marble floors from Italy, its rococo pier tables and ceiling-high mirrors. The walls were painted the palest blue; the mouldings, furniture, mirror frames and fireplaces all gilded and fantastically carved like acanthus leaves and daffodils, ivy and grapevines. A quartet played Vivaldi and Bach. Glass doors opened out onto the flagged terrace.

May balls were always the social events of the year, wherever held. Most agreed that the Balfour's was the most splendid setting they could ever remember.
The very best clothes were brought out for such occasions. Watteau-backed dresses in cloth of gold and silver, the finest and palest hues of silks and tafettas, the purest muslins. Jewels dripped, and military braid was trimmed with maniacal profusion, upon frock and waistcoat. The best wigs were donned and dusted, and tied with expensive satin ribbons.
The assembly looked splendid. It was only if one looked more closely that the imperfections showed: the rotten teeth beyond overpainted mouths; bad complexions where lead-based face paint literally rotted away the skin; and the wee small creatures that crawled about in the snowy, starchy white powder that coated the fashionably outrageous wigs. Many a non-existent bust was padded out with horsehair and wool; many a gentleman's belly corseted in excruciatingly tightly, to improve the line of his coat and breeches.
The local Member of Parliament had come. So too had the Bishop of Gloucester and his dean. There were assorted lords and ladies from the shire and the top people from the village: the wealthiest yeoman farmers and the new vicar and his wife. The Lawley-Lovelocks had also accepted an invitation.
Horace wanted them, perhaps most of all, to be pea green with envy. Indeed, at intervals throughout the evening, Horace sought Thomas out, and made much of pointing out some grand feature or other of the hall, saying '... and what d'you think of this, Thomas? You'll not have seen its better I'll warrant.'
Courteously Thomas would shake his head yet again.  should say not, Sir Horace. It is indeed the finest marble floor I think I've ever seen.'
At ten o'clock when the supper was finished and the musicians were taking their break, sitting in the servants' hall and wolfing down as much food as their bellies

would hold - Sir Horace mounted their little platform and called his guests jovially to attention.
They crowded around, with Catherine and the Lawley-Lovelocks at their head. Lucinda and Ralph stood by, their arms linked - their smiles decorous but never reaching their eyes. They were a young couple with breeding and manners; they treated the whole procedure with a cool dignity that bordered on aloofness or indifference.
'My dear friends,' broadcast Horace at the top of his voice. 'It is my happy task this night to announce the engagement of my son, Ralph, to our neighbour's dear daughter, Lucinda Lawley-Lovelock. They have expressed their wish to be married around harvest time and both Squire Thomas and myself have agreed to the match.'
There were many congratulations all round, and Lucinda, on the dutiful Ralph's arm, had to mingle and show off the braided band of gold, encrusted with black seed pearls, which was her betrothal ring.
At eleven o'clock the music took on a wilder style and the elder of the guests called it a day. They had their carriages brought around to the front of the hall and took their leave. The ball was judged to have been a great success.
At twelve o'clock the squire, his wife and their daughter, together with the guests from the village departed, happy but weary. Ralph kissed his fiancee's cheek absently and promised to ride over to see her on the morrow. Catherine and her daughters took themselves off to bed, exhausted by all the dancing and mingling.
That left Horace and his band of some dozen cronies to amuse themselves how they would. They drank some more, serving themselves while the musicians packed up and trudged out tiredly, and the footmen began lowering the great chandeliers and dowsing the stumps of candles.
'What sport have you for us, Horace?' he was asked

by one reeling, leering rake, wearing peppermint-striped satin.
'Aye, what game shall we play, Horace? You are usually so imaginative.'
'And tonight is no exception, my friends. I have devised a special something for your delectation.'
'Do tell.'
'I have simply made certain suggestions to a number of our more "adventurous" women friends. Some were guests here tonight and some have come solely for the "sport". All have dined and wined exceedingly well, are in a jolly, amenable frame of mind, and are game for anything, I think we can say. Anyhow, you may recall last year that we donned masks in another escapade, and took all manner of liberties with our companions hired for the night, safe in the knowledge that our identities remained secret. Well, tonight it is our potential partners who are masked ... or rather, hooded, ready, willing and even now awaiting us in the copse.'
'Oh I say!' said someone, obviously impressed.
'Wicked.'
'Yes, rather. Shortly, armed only with lanterns, we shall go a-hunting wood nymphs. They are wearing naught but white velvet cloaks - the easier to spot them in the dark and keep them warm, the dears - ' chuckled Horace. 'And of course, they will have the full hood over their heads. This way you'll none of you know with whom you toy. And they are wholly agreeable. Indeed, when I saw them a little earlier they were so mellowed by my best Genever as to be agreeable to anything.'
'Capital.'
'Brilliant, by George.'
'Let us be at 'em.'
'Tally-ho!'
They exited the ballroom through the glass doors and ran, stumbling, down the steps of the terrace, yelling like a pack of drunken street thugs.

The gentleman visitor from Cheltenham paused to take snuff, adding to the yellow stain that already shaded his upper lip. He didn't tarry long. The glow of a lamp in the copse spurred him on. He chuckled, and even whistled a couple of tuneless notes as his pace quickened again.
He spied a female form. 'Ah!' He crept forward, eyes devouring.
She lay in a bower, canopied by lilac and reclining upon a bed of ivy and regal ferns. As promised she was clothed in naught but a cloak of white velvet, its lining slippery white satin. Her head was covered in a plain cotton object not dissimilar to a pillowcase. She moaned softly, moving languidly, her legs falling apart to expose a darkly furred mound and a sex of dusk rosiness in the lantern light. The slight chill of the midnight air touched her pearly skin, raising goosebumps, making the large nipples on her full, lolling breasts, stand erect and inviting.
The gentleman came forward almost hesitantly at first. He could hardly seem to believe his luck. He trod gingerly amongst the rustling greenery.
The woman cocked her head a little more alertly and slurred tipsily, is anybody there?'
'Aye, madam. Pleasure is at hand.'
She sighed.
He unbuttoned his breeches, toying with his stubby member, encouraging it to better things as he devoured her secrets with his eyes, then he came and knelt between her legs. He stiffened, grew an inch or so, and was pushed eagerly towards her entrance. The head was shoved in, and the woman moaned and lifted her arms in a languidly receptive motion. The rest followed.
He ground against her, buried fully, his pelvis gyrating between legs he'd pulled wide open. He pressed her knees back against her chest, shortening her depths, pulling out almost completely, then plunging into her wildly. Then, he stroked deep, over and over until sensation built in his penis, the most important thing in

his personal universe, and she arched against him, issuing long drawn out sighs of luxurious pleasure. He thrust, he shoved and, with great delight, he came.
The cloak was lifted, showing neat buttocks raised high in the air. The reveller drew in his breath with excited appreciation and smoothed one of those firm, small globes.
The woodland beauty was as narrow in the hips as a youth. The reveller moved his lantern for a closer look and saw that the naked form kneeling, draped over a tree stump, was indeed a young man. His bottom was closed and tight; his balls and penis nestling down between his legs, soft and unremarkable.
The dissolute young man, hiccupping mildly, became aware of the increased light seeping through the material of his hood. Even through his drunken stupor. He'd already had an overindulgent night with his friends, at The Talbot inn in the village. And when Sir Horace had sought him out at the wrestling match which had followed in the inn's yard, waylaying him, and offering him two guineas for his services - cash up front - he hadn't hesitated. He was known for his sexual preferences in the village. Indeed the local lads were given to beating him up regularly for being so contrary. Life had its compensations though ... like tonight. He liked the money but he was mostly out for the thrill. Unfortunately, he was perhaps too much under the influence of drink now to fully appreciate the attentions being bestowed.
The man put down the lantern, taking care that its light shone fully upon the object of his temporary interest. Trust Horace to come up with so brilliantly original an idea - a mystery receptacle for a night's wicked passionate indulgence.
He'd never had a boy before. Though he had thought about it. But one had to think of one's reputation, especially in banking. Cheltenham wasn't known for its fast set. Tonight was different thought. Tonight no one

knew who was with whom. It was all so deliciously naughty. Anyone could have happened upon the lad. It just happened to be him.
'Are you awake?' he whispered.
The young man roused, squirming groggily upon his tree trunk. He was trying hard to remember where he was and why he was there; wondering at the fog before his eyes. 'Aye, I be. Who be thee?'
'It doesn't matter' said the gentleman banker quickly. 'Just rest. Just lay there. I've never done this before. Do you mind?'
'Oh nay, I'm quite partial. Let me take this damned sack off me head and I'll suck on you if you like.' He immediately started struggling with the hood with drunken enthusiasm.
'No, no,' said the Cheltenham man, nearly panicking. "The hood is part of the game, remember? You are not to know who I am.'
'Oh aye, I do recall now. Well, suit yourself.'
'Just lay there,' said the man invitingly, 'and let me have my way.'
'Whatever takes your fancy, sir,' said the local lad jovially, giving his arse a provocative wiggle.
The man dropped his breeches and knelt behind the high, enticingly presented rear, nudging the legs wide enough for him to move between them. He moved against the cool flesh of the young man's legs, smoothing it with his own; feeling the downy hair on the youth's thighs stand on end.
He ran his hand between the buttocks, down through the crease and hesitantly put an experimental finger to the tightly puckered orifice. The youth moaned as the tip of the man's finger disappeared within the tight passage. The man drew it out again, as if horrified by his actions. He trembled. For several seconds he just stared at the offerings before him, aware that his fat member was standing beautifully; had grown ramrod stiff without his even being aware of the fact.
He shouldn't, he knew. But he wanted to, so much.

He traced his palms over the slim hips. He let the fat red head of his shaft play against the tight, reflexively puckering entrance, lubricating it with his own moisture. He gave a little push. He met with solid resistance.
He tried harder, his jaw firming with determination, and yes he was in an inch. He was amazed at the tightness and struggled to gain another inch, feeling wedged in his prey, almost trapped by the constricting walls that grabbed about him.
He sank in as deep as he could, looking down to see his meat piercing the delicious rump of the appreciatively sighing youth beneath him, stretching him, filling him to the very limits; his curls pressed against hard, tight buttocks.
He pulled out, watching his inches drag from the flesh, then he thrust forward again, going in deep. His body arched ecstatically. He'd never felt so wonderful or so terrible. He caught at the narrow hips, held the male still beneath him and took up a relentless, deep, stroking rhythm, building an exquisite friction in such tight confines. He threw back his head and cried out as he spiralled beyond control, his mind shattered by the experience.
The old man set aside the cloak with trembling bony fingers. He cackled at the sight of the young, softly fleshed body he had revealed. It had been so long since he'd seen the like. So long since his body had managed any kind of sexual stirring. But he felt life creep into his long-neglected tool now and he gave a spontaneous cry of joy. He fumbled with his satin breeches, all thumbs.
The Honourable Cassandra Willets was one of Sir Horace's oldest partners in licentiousness. She was aware of the man's approach, even through her alcohol-induced haze, and her eyes tried to focus upon the light. She held her breath expectantly. She was enjoying all this immensely. She was dying to know who her lover of the night was, but understood the rules of the game; the

anonymity made it all the more delightful. So she never said a word.
Awkwardly the old man struggled between her legs and tried to insert himself. He huffed and puffed, grunting with exertion, yet couldn't manage penetration. A choked sob of abject frustration escaped from him.
He collapsed upon the soft female and wriggled stiffly down, snuffling and slobbering in amongst her salty damp folds; enjoying with his gummy mouth that which he could only dream nostalgically of thoroughly servicing with his member.
She groaned and cried out in transports of delight. 'Oh you angel, you devil! I adore you.'
Horace laughed softly, well pleased with himself as he approached his third ghostly lady of the night. What a hoot! What a joke upon them all!
Just went to show, thought Horace, that when a man's blood had reached that intoxicating degree that seemed somewhere near boiling point, he'd mount anything and give it a ride if it would let him. They were all the same; none of them any better than he, no matter what airs and graces they might give themselves. Horace had triumphed once again, had given them the kind of memorable entertainment he was famous for. If it was licentiousness and excess you wanted, Horace was your man.
From beneath the mask came gentle snoring and the unconscious smacking of lips. Horace chuckled, and rubbed his hands almost gleefully.
With the toe of his buckled and heeled black shoe he nudged aside the female's cloak and perused her body. No, he didn't think he recognised it. Mind you, the law of averages said that he'd enjoyed her at least once before. He'd slept with all his friends' wives!
He set down his lantern and searched his apparel. It was amazing what one could stow in the oversized patch pockets of one's frockcoat. He brought forth a splendid ivory dildo, some ten inches long and increasing in girth

from tip to base. He'd almost had enough that night; he wasn't insatiable by any means. But Horace couldn't bear to look a gift horse in the mouth. Her body, chanced upon as he made his way back to the hall for a nightcap and bed, was just too inviting to be neglected.
He knelt, and opened her legs. He saw that she'd already been used, that her juices were flowing. He grinned and inched into her with two fingers, opening her folds, then he inserted the modest tip of the false phallus. She contracted about it, relaxed, then contracted again, issuing a sigh.
Horace reclined upon his side, his weight on his elbow. He was very comfortable. Leisurely he introduced two more inches or so into her woman's place, working it smoothly and gently, with the finesse of a past master. What he didn't know about women and their bodies he arrogantly didn't believe was worth knowing. If something was good for him, then of course it was bound to be the same for his partner, wasn't it? Never had he enquired whether any of them were satisfied or otherwise by his performance. Of course they were! It should have gone without saying.
He took his time toying with his wood nymph. He couldn't make up his mind whether he actually wanted to fuck her or not. He yawned languidly, his mind a lazy dither.
She had a sweet puss. It was dark and plump, the bush thinning somewhat. Horace surmised that the lady must be of the mature variety, long since past her first flush of youth. It bothered him not. Age had never been a consideration. For a moment he was curious as to her identity, and thought about taking a peep beneath the all-concealing hood. But no. It would spoil the fun. It was difficult enough these days to find a novel experience.
He pulled the smooth ivory out of her sex and teased her arse instead, working it into that tight passage with almost gratifying difficulty. Slowly, licking his thin lips,

Horace watched the thickening pole slide up the lady's arse, impaling her, stretching the russet opening taut.
Instantly he felt a need to be inside her, and expertly dropped his breeches, prodding at her wet entrance with an ever-hardening member. The head found her, lodged, and Horace pushed smoothly and easily in. Full in, he gave a dominating jerk of his loins for good measure, glorying in the feeling of excess. Never had the lady been obliged to take so much in one go, he was sure. So thoroughly filled, the friction was blissful for him. She moaned unconsciously and Horace worked himself quickly to a climax, stabbing between her legs, his weight on his hands. Occasionally he jiggled the hugely girthed base of the dildo in her arse. In her dreams she jerked and stiffened, and was brought to a fleering moment or two of joy that she'd likely not even be able to recall on the morrow.
Ralph moved up the stairs in the old manor house, staggering beneath his burden. It wasn't easy climbing with a lady and a lantern in his arms. He was red in the face and blew like a hard-exercised racehorse.
He struggled to turn the handle of the door to Dulcie's room. She was where he'd left her. He knew she would be. She couldn't be otherwise. Her hands were tied before her and then secured around a post at the head of the bed. This made for very restricted movement; she could lie on the bed or use the chamberpot on the floor beside it. That was just about the full extent of her possible activity.
She'd been asleep when Ralph entered, and woke at the noise, rubbing her eyes and sitting up alertly. She frowned at the sight of him. What game was this?
He had the look of a wolf about him. It was, Dulcie knew, a common look, especially around her. He set down the lantern on the marquetry bedside table and deposited the limp female on the bed alongside her.
'Ralph?' Her frown was deep, worried and suspicious.
Ill
'Who is she? What's she doing here? What be wrong with her?'
'So many questions, my sweeting. She is one of my father's house guests. She's suffering from a surfeit of drink and pleasure. She's been the sport of my father's friends.'
'And you brought her here?' Dulcie was aghast.
'And why not? Why should you possibly object? I'm nothing to you, am I? So my replacing you with another for the taking of my pleasure should indeed come as a blessed relief, um?'
Oh how she hated him; the wicked glint in his eye, his guile. Quickly she affected a look of indifference. 'Do as you like. It concerns me not one jot.'
'I shall. I shall,' he declared, climbing atop the bed, between the unconscious woman's legs. He set aside her white cloak and spread her plump legs the wider.
Greatly offended and trembling with indignity, Dulcie moved to the end of her tether and turned her back on the man.
He took exception to her attitude and ordered, 'Watch. Or when I am finished with her I shall whip you. Watch, I say!'
Reluctantly she turned her gilded head of unkempt curls, her eyes shooting sparks. She watched and she seethed. Hating him. Jealous. Everything he did was for effect. He knew his Dulcie, how it would hurt.
He exaggerated everything - his almost balletically choreographed ravishment of the anonymous female and the pleasure he apparently derived from it, all for his love's benefit. He was proving a point, brutally but efficiently.
Dulcie watched as ordered as his raven head dropped between the woman's floppy legs and he held her folds open and delved with his tongue. Dulcie bit her lips to stall any noise or reaction.
The woman on the bed bucked and groaned with delirious, excited languidness. Ralph's assault was relentless and quickly effective. The body beneath him

jerked with delight and let out a long series of squeaky murmurs. He chuckled and moved off, wiping his mouth with his shirt sleeves. Then he unbuttoned his satin breeches.
Dulcie snarled and launched herself at him, her fists balled, raining blows down upon his back. 'Don't you dare. Just don't! I'll not forgive you if you do. Never. I hate you.'
'Hate me? Then why are you carrying on so?'
'I'll not be a witness to any more of your base acts. I just won't. You have no decency to subject to me to such humiliation,' she screeched, hitting him ineffectually.
He fended her off easily, laughing, then fell onto his back beside the limp and sated wood nymph. 'If your dignity is wounded by the prospect of me mounting another woman, m'dear, you had best do so yourself,' he sneered, pointing at his upwardly rearing shaft. It was thick, long and looked as smooth as satin in its fully aroused state.
She leapt up onto the bed, straddling Ralph, who was surprised despite himself. He had never expected obedience. 'I shall. I bloody-well shall,' she snarled and grabbed his flesh, none too gently guiding it in a no-nonsense fashion to her entrance and lowering quickly to devour him.
Sheathed so sweetly, Ralph found himself calling out. He was caught at her hips and glorying in such delightful penetration. 'My love, my Dulcie.'
'Shut up.' She wanted none of his silky, insincere words. She wanted him. It was a spontaneous desire brought on by her determination to have him rather than let him have another woman.
She moved upon him angrily, her face stony; gilded brows drawing together in a frown. She focused her stare upon the quilted damask redhead, and wouldn't let Ralph catch her eye. She just knew he'd be gloating and she couldn't stomach it.
He was thick and hard. He went deeply into her, the

wide base of him stretching her. She ground upon him, bone on bone, keeping him deep, barely withdrawing.
In the lantern light she spied the enamelled gold signet ring he had given her some three days previously. A wicked idea flashed through her brain. She had set it aside with distaste, leaving it forgotten until now, on the bedside table. She refused to put it on, as he'd asked, seeing the wearing of such a ring as a glaring mark of his ownership. Now she moved the ring, laying it face down upon the tin roof of the lantern so that the flamboyantly sweeping R was hidden upon the hot metal. He was so transported by her attentions, he didn't even notice.
Ralph held her about the hips, and was staring into her eyes as Dulcie thrashed against him with surprising violence for so petite a woman. Several times she had made him cry out or gasp. And all the while beside them lay the still, pale, nude body with its silly hood, from behind which came gentle snoring.
His fingers dug with possessive insistence at her soft flesh, his swarthy face a study of concentration. Again and again his breath caught as his excitement built, higher ever high, carrying them both upwards towards the mind-blowing pinnacle they'd come to expect; which was always there between them. They were seemingly made for each other.
His whole body had become taut as he reared, striving to pierce ever deeper into her and Dulcie jerked, her head thrown back, his root torturing her flaring entrance.
His fingers left white marks that flushed red where he had grasped her so desperately. He started to come, and he opened his mouth and let out a long, low groan of sweetest pleasure, pumping into her, his body thrusting in spasms. Dulcie followed quickly behind him, her crisis reaching its peak on the dying tail waves of his pleasure.
Breathing raggedly, having fallen back into the softness of the bed, Ralph lay, happy and vulnerable, smiling

-
.
his usual smile. Love, triumph and deviousness could be seen on his face, all mixed together.
She struck. The ring was hot, almost too hot for her fingers. But she would bear it. She brought it down upon his torso, just beneath his right pectoral. She thought fancifully that she heard his flesh sizzle, but she more likely imagined it.
He screamed, and his whole body reared up on the bed, even his penis, which had softened, leapt within her.
She laughed dementedly and threw the branding device aside.
"There, now you are mine. Wear my mark, Ralph Balfour.'
For the first time in Ralph's life he was incredulous. He raised a hand to strike her - having thrown her roughly off himself so that he could get her onto her back - but he stalled it in midair, then shook his head. He heard himself laughing unbidden.
'You bitch.' His voice was full of admiration.

Chapter Seven

Lady Catherine frowned when she met her daughter in the corridor outside Mr Foxe's studio.
'Sophie my dear, is your gown entirely suitable for a portrait? Wouldn't your cream poplin or sprigged muslin have been more fitting ... more maidenly?'
Sophie laughed scathingly. She said condescendingly, 'Really, mama, the shepherdess look is not for me. Let Frances have herself painted like Little Bo Peep, complete with straw picture hat and simpering smile. Besides, papa approves of this gown. He said that violet silk admirably suited my dark colouring.'
Catherine pursed her lips. She might as well give up there and then; she couldn't possibly win against father and daughter.
Sternly she fastened her daughter with a penetrating gaze and warned, 'Behave yourself when alone with Mister Foxe. Remember that he is not of our class. You have a reputation to guard. Please observe the proprieties, Sophie.'
Sophie affected her most innocent look. 'I never forget who I am, mama. Your warning is quite unnecessary. One might almost think that you were jealous of any attention Mister Foxe might bestow.'
'Don't be ridiculous, child.'

Sophie's look was smug and unconvinced. 'I mustn't tarry or I shall be late for my sitting.'
Biting back any further comment, Catherine moved on. Jealous? Certainly not. Where had the child got such a notion?
'How would you like me, Mister Foxe?' Sophie asked, her velvety words smoothly seductive.
Foxe smiled back, arching a dark brow. 'On the settee please, Miss Balfour.'
Her smile became positively lascivious. 'Really? Like this?' She seated herself, then manoeuvred sideways, reclining to show copious amounts of cleavage and trim ankles in grey silk stockings.
Foxe laughed and shook his head. Her brazenness amused him. She promised to be good sport. 'No.' He came forward, taking only a few strong strides with those long legs of his encased in their black breeches and grey stockings. 'May I?'
'Oh feel free,' she invited.
"This is more what I had in mind.' He sat her up at one end of the settee and rested her alabaster arm on the carved and gilded arm of the furniture piece. He set her head at a haughty angle, so that she was looking slightly down her nose at the artist when he perched himself on a stool before her and began to sketch.
For some minutes she stayed obediently still and quiet, though it was obvious that this took considerable effort. But as time passed and it became obvious that Mr Foxe's absorption in his work meant he had no conversation, Sophie got bored, and had to ask provocatively, 'Do you think me pretty?'
He cast her a fleeting glance over the top of his sketching block. 'You are a fetching creature.' It was said very matter-of-factly. There was no flirtation in his voice.
She was very disappointed and felt more than a little angry. She was used to men gushing over her, enchanted by her dark good looks and her velvety brown eyes.
'Should you like to kiss me?'

He sketched on without pause; didn't even look up. 'I don't think so.'
'Why not?' she demanded to know. 'I know my place, Miss Balfour.'
The next day her silence lasted no more than five minutes. 'Can you not paint and talk at the same time, Mister Foxe?'
His glance was fleeting. He shrugged, blending madder and Payne's grey, then mixing the two with linseed and adding turpentine. 'I can talk if you wish it, Miss Balfour. Of what shall we speak: music, art, fashion?'
'Let us talk about you.'
'Me? How dull that would be. I am naught but a poor, struggling artist, trying to make a name for myself.'
'Are you married?'
'I am not.'
'Have you a sweetheart?'
"There have been women for whom I have had a strong affection. But there is no one at present.'
She beamed. 'It can be lonely in the country, especially for a fellow from the city.'
'I have found the natives friendly.'
'Any in particular?'
'Some of the servants have made me most welcome.'
'Really? Which ones?'
'A gentleman never tells.'
She gave him a calculating look. 'I like a man who understands the importance of discretion.'
'It's my middle name.'
'So a young lady's reputation would be safe in your hands?'
'Completely so.'
'So if, say, I was to allow you certain liberties or disclose certain secrets of a delicate nature, I could trust you?'
Foxe knit his brows warily. 'If you need a confidant perhaps your mother would be more suitable.'
'My mother is a prim and proper matron. I couldn't

possibly talk to her. No, Mister Foxe, I like you. You have an honest face. I feel I shall be able to tell you things I could never dream of telling anyone else.'
'Some things are best left unsaid, Miss Balfour.'
For a while she was silent. Then she said, 'Do you paint nudes, Mister Foxe?'
'I have on occasion.'
'Classical ones I suppose, illustrating some ancient myth or fable?'
'Yes.'
'Have you ever painted naughty pictures? You know, really naughty. My papa has a book in his library. He doesn't know that I'm aware of its existance, of course. It's entitled Aretino's Postures and, Mister Foxe, it contains fine engravings of every sexual position deemed sensible or possible. I could borrow it for you if you'd like?'
Foxe coughed. "That will not be necessary.'
'So have you?'
'Have I what?'
Tainted forbidden subjects?'
"There has been the odd occasion ... when I was younger. It pays well.'
'Do tell.'
'I think it inappropriate and unsuitable for maidenly ears.'
'I am no innocent, Mister Foxe. I am my father's daughter.'
Joshua raised a wry eyebrow. Yes, he could well believe that. He shook his head.
She frowned, acting very much the little miss who is used to getting her own way. 'I insist.'
He mixed his pigments, most obviously reluctant.
'Go on,' she wheedled.
He sighed heavily with exasperation and applied the paint rather more aggressively than before. 'Very well. But do keep still, Miss Balfour. Indeed you are a very trying sitter.'
She blinked her eyes and resumed her pose rigidly.

'Once I was commissioned to paint the wife of Lord Aquablanca. His was an ancient family. Pre-crusader stock; hence the idiotic name. Apparently the original Aquablanca was an Italian abbot who came to England in the twelfth century and took up residence in Salisbury. There he fathered a bastard who carried on his name, albeit unofficially, for the next hundred or so years until Henry the Fourth made him a baron.'
'You disgress.'
He pursed his lips. 'Anyhow, my baron wanted his wife painted. I duly arrived at his country home. He took me aside and expressed his wishes. There was a room at his fortified manor given over to the portraits of all the Aquablancas. A special section was reserved for portraits of the wives. And they were all painted in a style that left little to the imagination.'
'Yes?'
He was thoughtful for a moment, searching his memory. 'For instance, the Tudor Lady Aquablanca had her hair covered by an elaborate headdress the likes of which Katherine of Aragon would have worn. You know the thing - stiff velvet, angular about the face, bejewelled, with a veil at the back to hide the hair. The Tudors were so odd about that, weren't they? It was deemed lewd and brazen to show the hair in public and yet at the same time to have one's breasts almost entirely on show was found quite acceptable.'
'Wasn't Katherine the queen on the playing cards?'
T think you'll find it was Elizabeth of York' said Foxe.
Sophie didn't feel sure enough to argue. 'You may be right.' Besides, he was straying from the story again. 'Continue.'
'She was depicted in a sombre, almost Gothically churchlike interior, seated in a chair, fully gowned in scarlet and black velvet damask. It was the most ludicrous pose, I recall, for she looked chillingly formal almost, save for the glaring fact that she had her right leg acrobatically wedged up over her shoulder and curling behind her head!'

Sophie squealed with delighted laughter. 'No! Really? What a hoot!'
'Nothing was left to the imagination, though I found the artist's work a little mechanical, personally, and lacking in grace. The painting did little for me.'
'But there were others. Tell me about them.'
Joshua painted away. 'Well there was Lady Linnet. She was the wife of a Secretary at the Admiralty, Marcus Aquablanca, during the reign of Charles the Second. It was a common fact that for a short period of time she was the king's mistress.'
'How was she painted?'
'On a day bed. They were newly in vogue then. She reclined, weight on an elbow, chin in her hand, smiling most coquettishly at the artist. Her oyster satin gown was artfully disarranged to expose her full breasts. The artist had made them look as smooth and cool as alabaster. He was always a trifle prone to flattery however, so that in reality they may have been a little different. Her skirts were draped about her, falling to the floor in the foreground, bunched behind against the low cane back of the day bed. She wore no petticoats and her stockings and garters lay on the Turkey carpet beneath the bed. I found it a charming painting.'
'But you haven't said what was so naughty about it.'
'She had one leg trailing to the floor. The other raised and resting along the back rail of the daybed. Her puss was all exposed. Every last fold and secret of it painstakingly duplicated upon the full-sized canvas. It must have taken an age for the artist to achieve such realism.'
'Many pleasant hours of work by the sound of it,' said Sophie dreamily, her eyelashes fluttering.
'Aye. I don't doubt the artist was also the sitter's lover.'
'Wouldn't it be splendid to paint me in such a way, Joshua?'
Smoothly he extricated himself from the awkward moment.
'Unfortunately my commission here keeps me fully

occupied. I have no time for any other work. Perhaps when you find yourself a husband, Miss Balfour, you can have yourself painted specially for him.'
She frowned and pursed her lips. 'I would rather be painted now, Joshua, while my beauty is at its most potent. Painted like Lady Linnet.'
He arched an eyebrow as she began to clutch at her skirts and draw them up over her knees. She opened her legs, balanced upon her toes and smiled wickedly at him. Taint me like this, Joshua. I am hot, wet, full of life and passion.'
He studied where she'd so blatantly invited him to look, appreciating the pink lips between sable pelt, the tongue that probed forth, hard like the tip of a dagger. Then, standing as he was, near the window onto the terrace - so that all available light came from behind him and fell fully upon his subject and canvas - he caught a movement out the corner of his eye. He nigh on sighed with relief. Rescue of a sort was at hand.
'Miss Balfour, I really think that you should cover yourself this instant. If you do not it is likely that your mama, who walks this way along the terrace, will witness your unsolicited exhibition.'
She pulled down her skirts and smoothed them out, striking her pose while her heart thumped wildly.
Foxe suppressed a chuckle and worked some more upon her likeness. She had a gracefully long neck, he noted. Yet he didn't doubt that exposed to her overlong he might end up wanting to snap it.
Her initial fright had waned and she kept looking towards the window, expecting to see her mama. She began to wonder whether he hadn't made it up just to keep her in line. 'I don't think my mama was there at all,' she said. But the words were barely out of her mouth, when Lady Catherine actually did come slowly into view.
The lady of Munsey stared hard in through the floor-to-ceiling glass doors, casting a suspicious eye over her

daughter and checking the artist's progress on the canvas.
Sophie pretended not to see her, feigning a boredom-induced trance.
Foxe paused in his work and executed a decorous bow, his elegant lace-trimmed hand sweeping an arc down before him.
Having patrolled and found nothing amiss, Catherine didn't tarry. She nodded curtly to Foxe and was off as slowly and regally as she'd approached.
Sophie was growing infuriated. Days passed and yet she was getting nowhere with Foxe. She tried hauteur; she tried charm (though the latter she'd always found more difficult and taxing). Neither appeared to work. He remained as disinterested as ever, very professional and detached in his dealings.
'Which one of our servants is warming your bed at the moment?' she asked one day, standing at the easel to admire the progress of his work before taking up her pose on the settee.
'I could not possible divulge such information.'
She shrugged. His attitude didn't surprise her at all. But it had been worth a try. If she'd been able to find out who he was bedding she may have gained an inkling as to the appetites of the man; might see where she was going wrong. Not for one moment could she accept that she simply wasn't his type. She was everybody's type!
Her eyes perused the canvas: the fine, free-flowing style of the dress, so typical of the painter Gainsborough; the stylish, shadowy background, uncluttered so as not to distract the eye from the sitter.
'My face is still rather vague. It is me and yet it could be any other female.'
'What you see is the under painting,' said Foxe. 'Your features and chosen expression have to be built with painstaking care. Each layer or glaze of paint adds, until finally we arrive at the real Miss Balfour.'

'How exciting. Shall you be as critically honest in your portrayal of me as you were with my papa?'
Foxe smiled smoothly. 'I can only paint what I see, Miss Balfour. What you will get is the truth from my point of view.'
'I am filled with trepidation' she laughed.
Take your seat, Miss Balfour. It is time to get down to work.'
She sat obediently and Joshua, in breeches and voluminous shirt, protected down the front by a calico apron, stepped forward and knelt to rearrange the folds of her violet skirts. He checked the canvas, came back and adjusted a little more.
She laid a hand on his surprisingly muscular arm. He was hard and athletic beneath the foppish clothes. His wasn't the soft body of a popinjay.
He ignored the contact, pulled away and moved behind the easel.
Her mouth pursed. His studied indifference was really beginning to rile her. 'Do you not find me attractive, Joshua?'
'You know very well that I do. And I think, Miss Balfour, that we have had this conversation before.'
'I could warm your bed far better and much more enthusiastically than any of the house servants.'
'Such speculation is pointless.'
'I am no longer a virgin. You would not be taking something that hadn't already been given willingly to another.'
'Lift your chin a little higher, please.'
'Since my initiation last year I have become well versed in the arts of love. I could do things -'
'I'd rather not know.'
'But I will tell you even so,' insisted Sophie. 'You are my captive audience and can do naught else save listen.'
He gave an exasperated sigh, mixed more flesh tone and rose madder, adding flake white and a hint of umber.
'My teacher was very instructive. He knows what men

like. My schooling was thorough. To begin with we tried all of Arentino's positions. What a delight it was to experiment, to help the man sheath his mighty tool in the sheep's bladder and then push it into me. A little grease was very useful, eased the passage. I especially liked being taken from behind, bent over a blanket box. Have you ever done it that way, Joshua?' He didn't deign to answer. 'Of course you have. I don't think I could teach you anything. You could teach me, I'm sure. When a man takes you from behind, holding your hips, your buttocks, pulling you wide open to his assault, there is something so delicious about the feel of him sliding in, filling you. He is so full and you are so tight. He bashes at you deep within, his balls jouncing against your sex, beating the softest tattoo ...'
Foxe couldn't help but listen. He couldn't stop himself hardening in his breeches either. He was glad he was hidden behind his canvas, his thick rod pressing against fabric, hidden from her gloating gaze.
'Wouldn't you like to take me that way, Joshua? Here and now, over the arm of the settee, say?'
'I can't waste the daylight, Miss Balfour' he said coolly, liking neither her methods of pursuit, nor her insufferable arrogance. Yes, she was her father's daughter alright.
Her eyes flared. Never had she been turned down so harshly. No one had ever dared before. She was used to getting what she wanted, when she wanted it. And she was hot for Foxe and growing more desperate and devious by degrees.
'I do not like your tone, man. You forget who I am.'
'And you forget that you are supposed to be a lady' he remarked critically.
She drew in her breath, her eyes widening with amazement. How dared he! 'Mister Foxe!'
He ignored her outrage. 'Miss Balfour, please resume your pose. You are wasting my time and your father's money'
'I will not, damn you. I am Sophie Balfour and ' do as

I please.' So saying she jerked to her feet and swept out with a violent rustle of violet silk.
He steeled himself not to jump as the inevitable bang of the door came, and chuckled slyly to himself.
She was back the next day, stony-faced and extremely prickly. She addressed him as Mister Foxe rather than the more familiar Joshua and hardly spoke at all. That didn't bother him. He worked well in the silence, her face taking shape; the nose growing out of the canvas, becoming three-dimensional with shadows and highlights; her cowlike brown eyes became eyes indeed rather than impressionistic smudges, showing depth. How, he wondered, could someone who looked so much like a madonna be such an irksome wanton? She was reckless, giving her desires full rein without thought for the consequences.
The next day it was grey, and raining on and off. The light was too poor for painting. Joshua took himself off to the inn in the village. There he met up with Ralph Balfour quite by accident. They got talking, and Ralph bought him a tankard of ale. Soon they were jovial and game for just about anything. Ralph decided they'd go cockfighting. There was a gathering that afternoon at the old folly on the hill. Every betting man in the district would be there.
The pair headed off on horseback, one part sober two parts drunk. They laid their bets none too wisely on bantam, game and chicken cockfights. They didn't much care. It was amusing just to be there. The crowds were of questionable character; the women amongst them most definitely of loose morals. Ralph and Joshua became the main focus for female attention.
T need a woman,' decided Joshua, very much aware of all the willing and available womanflesh parading itself before him.
Ralph laughed in commiseration. "That sister of mine playing the teasing bitch, firing your blood?'

'You don't know the half of it. Never was there such a temptress.'
'Why don't you just give her what she wants and shut her up?' asked Ralph.
'Frankly, Ralph, I don't care for her. Sorry, I know she's your kin, but she's just not my type.'
'Fair enough. I can understand that. Never liked her much myself. Be careful, man. She's a viper, even more so, I expect, if her love's unrequited.'
'Your sister doesn't want to love me, Ralph,' laughed Joshua. 'She wants to devour me, I think.'
'Let's forget about Sophie. Forget about Lucinda. All the hard-hearted bitches in our lives. Let's find ourselves some warm, willing and appealing female company for the rest of the day. Here we're spoilt for choice.'
Their fancy was taken by Amorous Amy. She was acknowledged as the most popular strumpet from the village. Indeed men came from miles around to woo her and sample her charms. Lusciously large and with a mass of tightly curling flaxen hair, she was a match for any man. So when Joshua and Ralph began drunkenly to argue over who would go with her, Amy sorted things amicably by saying she'd have them both. She even supplied the refreshments - a jug of rough cider.
They took themselves off to a field where the harvest had been gathered and the hay ricks stood high. Ralph showed off his athleticism by scaling one conical structure and stamping down its thatched roof. Then he lay down on his belly and extended a hand to help Amy and Joshua climb up to join him.
On their backs, gazing at the setting sun, they passed the jug between them, chattering, giggling, laughing and belching.
Amy's hands were the first to wander, smoothing the thighs of the languid men between whom she was sandwiched. Making consenting noises, they moved closer. The cider was all gone and Ralph hurled the stone jug down into the field. Then his arms enfolded Amy

and he stroked her mound through her clothing, feeling how she pressed eagerly back into him with her buttocks.
Joshua had turned, and was no longer on his back, but faced her now, kissing the full, deep pink mouth, invading it with his tongue. A thrill shot through her core, making her tremble. She loved a man's tongue. It was like his prick - wet and insistent. She strained against Joshua.
He wasted no time. He was hungry and wanted to take her before the cider he'd just consumed affected him fully and maybe impaired his performance. He'd have hated to short change someone as accommodating as Amorous Amy. She deserved a man's best efforts.
He kissed her long and hard, then transferred his attentions to the breasts spilling out of her gipsy blouse, fastening his lips around her hardened nipples.
Two pairs of hands travelled up her thighs, taking her cotton skirts along with them, exposing her smooth white skin. Fingers coaxed her uppermost leg to raise, making her cranny accessible, and then they playfully explored her. The cheeks of her bottom were so soft and plump, the lips of her sex silky and moist. Ralph squeezed her buttocks. Joshua dipped a gentle finger into her, stroking her from front to back, over and over, feeling her tense delightedly, then strain against his knowing finger. He found her entrance, pushed into her, stimulating her bud with his thumb.
All the while Ralph was probing her rear, stealing moisture from her woman's place and lubricating her puckered bottom. He tickled her and she laughed, not at all shocked to be touched there. She liked to experiment; she appreciated a man with imagination. She'd been expecting to take one or the other of them in her mouth while her puss was occupied; if Ralph liked her bottom though, she was game. Evidently he did.
His member was out of his breeches, hard and smooth as satin, its head glistening. He ran the moist, bulbous head between the cheeks of her arse, played it around the tight entrance and began to push it home. There was

some resistance. But not too much. She was stretched there from the constant use, for men did like to play there, she'd found, even when fucking conventionally. They couldn't resist - once they knew she didn't mind -putting things up there; fingers, tongues, root vegetables! She'd had several sessions with a woodcarver from the neighbouring village of Huntsdon who'd fashioned an overlarge dildo upon his wood lathe solely for the purpose of seeing it vanish inch by inch up her rear while he stroked her glistening, hungry sex.
Ralph sank into her, gave a final jerk to make certain he was all in, and caught Amy about her fleshy hips to still her as he began to move, slowly and deeply, her buttocks clenching at him, dragging at his curls.
Joshua took her hand and placed it upon his swollen manflesh. She trilled prettily, apparently impressed. Then she ran her fingers all over it, encircled it, teased its highly sensitive head with her thumb, then guided it hungrily between her open legs.
Joshua moved close. He could feel her breasts squished against his hard, lean chest; could feel the silken head of his manhood slip through her wetness, entering a welcoming though restricted haven.
With a little persistent coaxing he was able to get the head inside, and he could actually feel the rippling movements of Ralph using her arse. With difficulty he pushed himself all in, and heard the sandwiched Amy groan with an excess of pleasure.
He moved gently, wanting to last, aware of the delightful friction that was being built by the tightness of the triple union.
Amy clung to him, Ralph clung to her. Mounted and moulded so intimately, they were in danger of being overcome by the heat they were generating. Their hair stuck to their faces and necks. Perspiration ran between Amy's breasts. They groaned continuously, in unison, as a rhythm was established in the thrusting and writhing. Penises withdrew and filled so deliciously; heated flesh savouring glorious and forbidden fruit.

Amy began to tense and arch, making endearing little noises deep in her throat. Ralph went full pelt into a craze of thrusting as his moment came upon him. Joshua battered between her juicy lips, pressing her mound, filling her depths, going in deep, then deeper as his climax approached. Hers was already upon her, and her contracting depths brought Joshua to the most exquisite pinnacle of pleasure.
He jerked and he thrust, his neat buttocks clenching as he unloaded himself, crying out noisily, his outburst sounding like some pagan battle yell.
They collapsed, sweaty and panting, quivering with pleasure, then separated and lay on their backs atop the rick, drowsing most pleasantly for the rest of the afternoon.
It was nearly midnight by the time they returned to Munsey Hall. They'd been back to the inn for further refreshments at Ralph's insistence and Joshua landed up half-supporting, half-carrying him home; leading their horses behind him.
The steward let them in, frowning disapprovingly and making much of the lateness of the hour. Sincerely Ralph apologised to him for keeping him up.
'Get yourself off to bed directly, my good fellow,' he slurred, staggering, while leaning heavily upon Joshua, towards the sweeping staircase.
The manservant turned the elaborate key in the oversized doorlock, shot the iron bolts and did just that, muttering sourly under his breath.
'Ssh!' insisted Joshua, as Ralph started singing one of his dirtier ditties. Joshua had one hand on the handrail, the other around his companion, as he half-dragged him behind.
'Bah!' exclaimed Ralph, drunkenly noisy.
'Let's get you to bed so's you can sleep it off with none of your disapproving family any the wiser.'
'Probably a wise move' agreed Ralph, smiling fool-

ishly now. He clapped his other arm about Joshua. 'By Gad I've had a good time. We must do it again.'
'Yes, yes' the artist agreed, impatiently, struggling to free himself and gain the landing at the top of the stairs. 'But be quiet now, do, there's a good fellow.'
'You've been a good friend, Joshua. You have. Yes, you have, don't argue,' said Ralph, full of drink-induced camaraderie.
'I know, I know,' said Joshua indulgently, trying hard to keep his patience as the other man became increasingly uncooperative in his movements. At one moment he seemed to be stepping backwards down the stairs and in danger of falling.
Joshua clutched at him the more tightly and dragged him purposefully up to the landing in a concerted burst of energy. It wasn't easy. He was by no means sober himself. And no sooner had they got there - Joshua insisting that his drinking partner get a grip on himself and at least help him by putting an arm around his shoulder so that he could get him the final twenty yards or so to his room - than Lady Catherine stepped from her bedchamber, blocking their progress down the corridor.
Her expression changed from stony to thunderous. All her ire was focused on Joshua. 'Mister Foxe, really! Is this any way to be bringing my son home? You are a disgrace. The pair of you. And as the older, sir, I should have hoped that you would set a better example. Please get him to his room forthwith and then take yourself off to yours.'
Joshua opened his mouth, as indignant as a schoolboy wrongly accused of some misdemeanour, ready to start forth with some explanation that would exonerate him.
Catherine was having none of it. She put her hand up, cutting him off imperiously before he'd even managed to utter a word. 'I want no excuses. I am not interested. Off with you.'
Silenced, Joshua meekly did as ordered, his brain far too fuddled to be any match for her.

'Sorry, mama' Ralph apologised slurringly.
Her mouth compressed sternly. 'You I shall speak with in the morning when you have more chance of being coherent.'
His head thumped and his mouth felt as if full of iron filings and cotton wool. When Sophie entered his studio, closing the door none too gently behind her, he jumped and put a hand to his temples.
She sat down, smirking. She knew what had transpired the day before. Or at least she had heard Ralph's abridged version of it, blurted contritely to his less than pleased mama across the breakfast table.
'Enjoy yourself yesterday?'
'It was free time relaxingly spent. I did not, however, drink perhaps quite as much as your brother.'
'Very wise. He is regretting it most heartily.'
Joshua mumbled as he mixed his paints. He didn't feel like painting and had little time for polite conversation with Miss Balfour. Frowning from his headache, he set to work determinedly.
'Go whoring as well as drinking did you?'
'I don't think it suitable subject matter for a conversation, Miss Balfour.'
'You certainly don't like talking about sex, Joshua, do you? Are you naturally prudish? Or maybe inhibited? Or are you a man of action rather than words?'
Today, Miss Balfour, I am certainly not the latter. I cannot recall the last time I felt quite so jaded. At this moment I am most definitely not in a licentious frame of mind.'
She smiled unsympathetically. No, he was definitely a little lacklustre and exceedingly grouchy. But Sophie had never known when to quit. The devil was in her.
'When will you admit that you want me? That you can't help but think about having me, even though you may despise yourself for your weakness?'
He scoffed. 'You do talk rubbish, Miss Balfour. Your head is full of daydreams and silly, girlish fantasies. If I

really did attempt your seduction you'd likely run a mile and panic.'
Immediately there was a challenging spark in her eyes, denial on her lips. 'Frightened of you? I think not. I've already told you, I'm no innocent. I've been gaining experience rapidly over the last year. I'd be more than a match as a mate for you.'
'Stop moving. How can I possibly paint you if you won't behave? I shall speak to your father ... complain.'
'I'm not in the mood to sit here any longer,' she decided with gleeful amusement. She jumped up and skipped to the door. For one hopeful moment he thought she was leaving, then she turned the key in the lock, stuffed it down the rigidly boned stomacher of her gown and then stood there laughing at Foxe's look of consternation.
'Give me that key.'
'No. Not until I get what I want.'
'You may get more than you bargained for if you vex me.'
Her eyes brightened with excitement, a thrill of fear running through her. 'Do your worst' she goaded.
'Do not tempt me.'
'But I shall,' she laughed, raising her skirts to show her knees. She revealed the silk rosebuds embroidered on her garters, her white thighs. 'I feel compelled.'
Eyes blazing, Foxe strode to the window and unhooked the sashes that tied back the floor-length drapes, casting the room into an instant state of gloom. He struck tinder and lit the candles, all without once looking at Sophie Balfour. Then he took her by the wrist and hauled her, squealing with laughter, to the bed.
He put her over his knee, then held her down firmly by the shoulders and proceeded to lay one, then two, then a third stinging slap to her rounded, upthrust bottom.
His actions took the young lady completely by surprise. She shrieked with indignity and no small amount

of pain. Three livid palm prints showed on her soft, lily-white skin.
'How dare you!' she spluttered, tears in her velvet brown eyes.
'Oh I dare' said Foxe calmly. 'You've been asking for it for days.'
'You low, hateful -'
He stuck a finger up her arse.
She was instantly quiet. Her whole body went rigid. She held her breath then expelled it in a violent rush. 'I can't believe that you'd have the audacity to do that.'
'No? Then what a naive creature you are, Miss Sophie. I shall do a great deal more than that to you before I'm through.'
A certain wariness had crept into her voice. 'I think I've tired of this particular amusement. I want to leave now. Please unhand me.'
'But for days you've pestered me for my attention. Now you have it - full and undivided. This is no time for such thoughts, m'dear.'
He dragged her from the bed. She was no longer laughing. There was a mixture of fear and excitement in her eyes.
'What're you going -'
'Going to do? I'm going to press you back against this wall. Thus. And sink my meat into you. In as deep and hard as it'll go. That's what you want, isn't it, Miss Balfour?'
She shook her head. Aroused, yet intimidated by him; unnerved by his controlled anger. Still she couldn't quite deny her initial desires even if her mind was now all a-muddle. She'd wanted Foxe, but on her terms, with her in control. Somehow he'd taken over and it worried her to hell.
Touch me again and I'll scream.'
'I think not,' he said assuredly, pinning her against the wall as promised and catching at her skirts.
She made as if to slap him, but Joshua caught the wrist, spanned it and its twin with his artisan's hands,

and pinned them above her head. Without preliminaries he freed himself from his breeches, his penis hard now with aggressive male desire, and nudged himself between her knees, insinuating himself there. Hot flesh against hot flesh.
She trembled. She was hot and wet with her longing for him. Her eyes blazed dangerously but when Foxe thrust upwards, taking possession of her in one plunging, violent motion, a look of wicked delight transformed her face.
Joshua wasted no time. He wasn't of a mind to make love to her. He took her quickly, leaving her unfulfilled and panting for more; bereft when he slipped from her.
He tied her hands together and then tied them around the armrest of the settee upon which she had been posing so irritatingly for so many days past.
She was acquiescent and pliant as he manipulated her limbs. He brought up her legs and skirts, then exposed her secrets wide open, her sex gaping. Into it he inserted a white beeswax candle whose surface rippled nicely with rivulets of melted and re-formed wax.
'Foxe ... Joshua,' she pleaded. 'Fuck me. Please. Put me out of my misery. I burn for you. For that beautiful shaft of yours. I've never seen anything so gorgeous. I am your slave. Do anything you want. Chastise me again if you think I deserve it, but put it into me again, take me hard like you did just now and make me come. I was so close ... on the brink. It was almost as if you denied me my pleasure on purpose.'
'You show surprising astuteness, Miss Balfour. I'm in no mood to fuck you again. Now I feel like painting. I'm going to do a special study of you.'
'But... but...'
'What's the matter, Miss Balfour? I thought you had a particular interest in erotic art.'
'You can't be serious?'
'Deadly. Now smile, m'dear. Your puss by candlelight will make a charming painting. It's positively your best feature.'

Chapter Eight
He had thought that such cavalier treatment would turn her from him for good, give him some respite from her irksome pursuit. But it seemed that she liked him behaving like an utter bastard and pursuit for the sake of amusement had now turned into slavish devotion. He simply couldn't shake her off. The more hostile he became, the more she seemed drawn.
Her portrait was finished and now hung, framed in elaborately gilded rococo style, a little down the staircase from that of Sir Horace. Everyone admired it. Sophie, however, preferred her secret painting. With chilling indifference Foxe had presented it to her late that afternoon in his studio, its paints still very wet and glistening with linseed. Though its subject was explicit, the painting was abstract as a whole, and quite startling. Sophie adored it but panicked a great deal over a hiding place for it.
One day Lady Catherine came upon the pair in the garden. Foxe was walking fast across the lawn as if he hoped to outpace the female who hurried at his side, leaving her behind. Sophie was talking ten to the dozen. Foxe appeared only to have a few sharp words for her in reply. When they saw Lady Catherine veer towards

them, Sophie dropped back, and returned from where she'd come.
Catherine's face was stem. Foxe bowed respectfully, taking the hand she extended automatically and kissing it. He held it longer and kissed it more lingeringly than was quite proper, his eyes staring boldly up into hers, dark and unfathomable. She dragged her fingers from his grasp.
'Mister Foxe, I cannot help but notice that you spend a great deal of time in the company of my daughter.'
'Rather, m'lady, it is the other way round. She spends it in mine, and quite without an invitation it must be said.'
"Then please discourage her, man.'
'Your daughter is a wilful young lady. She does as she pleases. Perhaps a word from your good self would do more good.'
Catherine pursed her lips and gave the faintest of nods. 'Unfortunately she's no more likely to listen to me than you, sir. But I will try.'
'Thank you, m'lady. I would be grateful.'
'I am most pleased with her portrait, Mister Foxe' said Catherine, more conversationally now as she strode beside him, aware that he had slowed in deference to her smaller paces. 'You captured her proud beauty very well indeed.'
"That is kind of you.'
'It is a true representation.'
'Groomed and alluring yet frosty?'
She smiled. 'Precisely.'
'How goes the double portrait of Ralph and Lucinda?'
'It is taking shape.'
'Good. That was a capital idea, Mister Foxe, to paint them as a couple in celebration of their recent engagement.'
He smiled then, as he watched her profile, gazing into her silver grey eyes as she looked ahead determinedly. Not for one moment could she let him see the effect he was having upon her. Almost with relief she found

herself at the open doors of the green drawing room. She gave a perfunctory nod.
'Good day.'
He bowed again in his black wool and white lawn and lace. 'Good day' he replied and walked the terrace to his studio door and stepped inside.
Sophie was there, hiding behind the curtains. She slipped out and twined her arms about his waist. He snorted with exasperation.
'I thought you'd gone riding?
'I can't be bothered. I'd rather stay with you.'
'Miss Lawley-Lovelock will be here for her sitting in half an hour.'
Time a-plenty for lots of things' said Sophie hopefully.
Joshua unbuttoned his coat and threw it off over a brocade upholstered armchair, then loosened his waistcoat too. The day was so sultry and the sight of Lady Catherine had set his blood coursing and his heart thumping.
Sophie was snuggling against him once more, her eager hands everywhere. 'Leave me alone, child. Do not vex me' he muttered as she caught the ribbon that secured his queue, pulling it undone. His hair fell then to his shoulders, dark as sable, lustrous and surprisingly clean.
He exhaled very noisily. Irritatedly he locked his door and drew his curtains. A look of delight descended upon Sophie's face.
Roughly, and without a word, he caught her about the waist and marched her to the bed.
'Are you going to punish me? Have I made you very angry?' she said in quiet trepidation, her voice trembling.
'No, I'm not going to punish you' he snarled in disgust, knowing that was exactly what she wanted.
He bent her over the bed, raised her skirts and pulled her legs wide. Her arse tightened reflexively; her sex winked and glistened amid its pink lips and dark forest. He put his hand through her legs and cupped her

mound, applying exquisite pressure to that sensitive area. She groaned, quickly aroused by the gentle caress. He wasn't surprised; such a manoeuvre never seemed to fail.
He let his hand draw back through her folds, his fingertips finding her and tracing through her intimate wetness. He slipped them easily into her entrance. She groaned and raised her arse in the air enticingly.
He released his shaft from his breeches. Thoughts of Catherine had made him grow huge and cumbersome with longing. He held her sex lips open and inched the mighty head of his phallus into Sophie. She contracted eagerly about him, welcoming him. He caught her pale hips in his hands and pushed in, pulled out, perhaps four inches, lubricating the passage, then drove into her fully, burying himself to the hilt.
She gasped and struggled, surprised by his dimensions. But she grew accustomed after a dozen merciless thrusts and even braced herself greedily to take all he had to offer.
A hand went around the front of her, cupping her mound deliriously once again, a finger playing in her wetness, torturing her bud as his huge member pushed and dragged at her very core. He was so hot, and so beautifully thick, that the mere thought of it triggered an explosion of her senses. She screamed in rapture.
Foxe came close on her heels, battering against her buttocks, his girth falling, slipping then jerking ruthlessly as it spent itself. For a moment or so he savoured the release of tension, the heady delight. Then he pulled out of her, making Sophie cry out miserably. He then stowed away his tackle, pulling down her skirts as if nothing had happened.
He went to his work table and took up his palette, selecting the colours he would need that day. Sophie stood up and straightened her bodice. Her triumphant smile faltered in the face of his total indifference. Absorbed in his work, it was as if she no longer existed.
There was a knock on the door.

He looked up absently. "That is probably Miss Lawley-Lovelock. Pray let her in when you let yourself out.' Sophie's face twisted, turning an angry red. 'Bastard!'
Supper, as ever at The Fighting Cock inn in Gloucester City, was a very pleasant experience for Catherine and Squire Thomas.
They sat back in their seats replete and at ease. She stifled a burp, and he reached once more for the brandy decanter.
He held it out to her. 'Nightcap?'
'No, thank you, Thomas. I'm sleepy enough already. Too much rich food, I suppose.'
'The boring company more like.'
She smiled. She knew not to take him seriously. 'You know very well that I could never find you boring. If only Horace had the flair for wining and dining me so attentively, I doubt we'd now be so coolly disposed towards one another.'
'Gad, madam' said Thomas forcefully, leaning forward in his chair, and staring intently at Catherine across the width of table. 'Why won't you be mine? Blow Horace. Blow everything. adore you and you know it.'
She frowned. 'Don't, Thomas. If you persist in bringing this subject up in conversation every time we are alone then you'll leave me no alternative but to stop these get-togethers. I can just as easily find out how our joint venture fares, by discussing matters with my bank manager, you know,' she threatened.
'You're a hard woman.'
She nodded reflectively. 'Perhaps I am.'
'Mind if I smoke?' he asked.
'Not at all.'
From the grey velvet patch pocket of his frock coat he produced a long-stemmed clay pipe, a tinderbox and a leather pouch of Virginian tobacco. When the bowl of tobacco was successfully lit, Thomas went to stand by the fireplace in their private dining room, puffing away thoughtfully.

'Profits are well up,' he mused, obviously pleased. 'Even taking into account the seasonal highs and lows, coals fetching a good price. It's most definitely the fuel of the future. There'll come a time when no one can recall knowing a woodcutter; they'll be extinct in all but the most remote of locahons. Everyone will want coal -efficient, easy to haul and readily available.'
'Yes, our futures look rosy. On a personal level, I expect to have surreptitiously cleared all of Horace's debts within the next eighteen months. Sooner, if our profits keep growing at the heartening rate they have so far. I am now a very valued customer at the bank.'
'Do I detect the slightest touch of cynicism?'
She laughed. 'You know as well as I, Thomas, what fair-weather friends bank managers and owners are. They do love you most when you've a healthy balance.'
He chuckled and nodded. T have no debts to pay off, unlike yourself. I have been thinking that I'll perhaps invest some of my first year's profits with the Merchant Venturers of Bristol. I've been hearing very favourable whispers concerning them.'
Tell me more.'
'Well, by all accounts they put the money into their ships. These ships trade in the East and West Indies and hardly ever fail to bring home a good return for their investors. They are into everything - spices, slaves, sugar, molasses, Cuban mahogany, pearls ... You name it, they seem to know a prime source and market. Also,' - he lowered his voice intriguingly and Catherine duly paid closer attention — 'they are not averse to a spot of piracy on the high seas. Not against British vessels, of course, but just about any other nation is fair game, so I've heard.' He winked.
She tutted. 'Sounds dubious.'
'But highly profitable. Why don't you think about investing, Catherine? By Gad, it could make you a very rich woman.'
'I'd foresake rich for happy any day, Thomas.'

'But if you were rich, m'dear, you could damned well do much as you pleased. That should make you happy.'
'I'll think on it. But the Balfour debt is not yet cleared entirely. Only when it is shall I give careful thought to a personal nest egg.'
'Yes, well, there is still time aplenty, I'll warrant. My site manager has recently carried out a survey and exploratory dig to ascertain the extent of the coal field that runs through your land and mine. His findings are most heartening. There is coal enough, of the easily retrievable kind, to keep our miners in work for another five years at least. And that, so he said, was a cautious and professional estimate. I urge you, Catherine, see your banker. Ask if it is ethically possible for you to have some monies placed in an account of your own. I think the fellow would look quite favourably upon any proposal you put forward. He'd be a fool if he didn't, considering the amount of business you are bringing him. You are swiftly clearing your husband's debts. You have done a great deal to ensure that the Balfour name flourishes once more, and shall not fall into decline with ruin and bankruptcy, and all the rest. You deserve a little something for yourself, m'dear - a little independent wealth set aside to do with as you will in the future. 'Tis only fair.'
'But I always vowed I should not touch a penny.'
'Bah! Such high principles are short-sighted indeed' scolded Thomas, shaking his head disapprovingly at her. 'Did your husband once think of you while he squandered the family wealth on his grand dream, his Munsey Hall?'
T think rather he was thinking of you, Squire Thomas. Of besting you once and for all' said Catherine wryly.
'Quite so. And it nearly ruined him, and you, and the rest of the family along with him. He did not once have a qualm concerning the risk. You have been his salvation, did he but know it, and you truly deserve some recognition ... some reward. Talk to the bank. Secretly invest.

Look after yourself first for a change and plan for any eventuality. No one knows what the future holds.'
A chill ran up Catherine's arms and spine. 'Oh, change the subject, do. You're scaring me, man. Tell me instead what you thought of the revival of John Gay's Beggars' Opera. I remember my father telling me that he attended its premiere at Bristol's Hotwells back in the twenties.'
"Then first let me replenish my glass and pour a nightcap for you also' insisted Thomas.
The betrothed couple rarely appeared together for a sitting after the initial sketches and preparatory washes to the oversized canvas. The whole concept was contrived and fanciful, a work of fabrication.
Ralph had asked for a classical setting, preferably out of doors, but come autumn, when the project got under way, the weather made that impossible.
Joshua sketched ideas, using outside scenery and the architecture of the hall's portico in particular to try keep the intended couple happy. Eventually they did agree upon a certain theme. They were superimposed upon a backdrop that owed a great deal to Joshua's inventiveness and imagination. He drew on his sketchbooks from Italy for inspiration and presented two seemingly besotted lovers amidst a ruin of Corinthian pillars and suitably archaic vegetation. Acanthus leaves and grapevines heavy laden with bunches of purple fruits abounded. Quite plainly the painting was far removed from reality.
Joshua thought their preference fanciful but set about the work with gusto, genuinely glad to be permitted to paint in a different style. It made such a change from the stuffy portraiture that so many wealthy families demanded.
On good days Joshua sat outside and poached aspects of the house, the terrace, even the classical urns, rearranging them in the kind of landscape beloved of the superlative Claude Lorrain. Other days he had the acanthus, vine and ferns carried from the hothouse to his

studio, painting them into his beautifully contrived landscape.
On days like today Lucinda or Ralph came and sat upon the settee, which in the painting had magically changed into a marble bench, carved with sea scrolls and the head and torso of Pan playing on his pipes.
Lucinda sat obediently still, though she stiffened up after so many minutes without moving. She was a model sitter. A delightful young woman. She could have done better and certainly deserved better than Ralph. She was quite charming with her freckled nose, green eyes and auburn hair. She had dressed in a simple sprigged muslin daydress with powder blue underskirts and stockings. Her buckled shoes were of buff buckskin, her decolletage softened by a flimsy lawn kerchief tied in a knot between her breasts and fastened with one of the new cameo brooches which were all the rage.
Her smile now looked set and unnatural. Joshua took pity upon her. Tray relax a moment, Miss Lucinda. I must mix more paint.'
She grinned delightedly and literally collapsed back into the settee. 'Ah, what a relief.'
'Let me ring for some tea for you.'
'No, please don't bother. I like to do a little watercol-our painting myself, on occasion, Mister Foxe. I know how feverishly one likes to work when one has the right light. So often it is wrong and one is frustrated, and the work must be set aside until another time'
'You are so kind, Miss Lawley-Lovelock ... so understanding.'
She gave a scoffing laugh. 'I'm trying to keep Ralph happy, I suppose. Though sometimes I don't think that entirely possible. He seems happy enough at the prospect of marriage and yet I feel, deep down, that there is no love in it; that I fall short in his esteem.'
Joshua should have liked to disagree but in all honesty he could not. He knew exactly what Lucinda meant. He had seen it with his own eyes. Ralph treated her with the same contemptuous familiarity and indifference with

which he treated his sisters. She would be his wife but as a woman she meant very little to him. It was all rather sad.
'Is this marriage a good idea?' he wondered aloud, frowning.
'Oh yes, yes,' she insisted quickly, affecting a smile that never reached her eyes. 'Everything is arranged. I couldn't possibly back out now.'
'Do you love him?'
She cast down her eyes. 'No. I've come to know him too well over the years, if not first hand then through the rumours and stories that abound concerning him. Ralph Balfour is a blackhearted man.'
'Poor Miss Lucinda,' said Joshua with sincerity.
She patted his arm hearteningly. 'Don't pity me. I shall survive. One day I shall be a lady. I shall be mistress here. Arranged marriages have their compensations.'
'You speak those words as if well rehearsed. As if, by Gad, you'd been indoctrinated. Surely you cannot truly mean them?'
'My mama schooled me to accept my lot in life. Perhaps it is too much to expect love and marriage? Indeed, Mister Foxe, I did love once. He was my father's groom. We knew it was hopeless and eventually he left for Gloucester to run an inn on the city outskirts. He had to go. We tortured each other by our close proximity.'
He shook his head and, cheerily, Lucinda regained her pose. Talk to me of something amusing, Mister Foxe. It is an artist's duty to keep his sitter entertained, is it not?'
Ralph was being painted standing beside his lady. In the double portrait his right hand rested possessively upon her left shoulder and he looked over her head at the viewer. Taking Luanda's place during Ralph's sittings, was a dress dummy from the seamstress's room. The calico dummy wore Lucinda's straw picture hat and looked quite odd.
Ralph hiccupped and scratched his nose. He'd been to the inn in the village that lunch hour and liberally

partaken of the landlord's ale. Joshua knew they'd get little work done on the painting that afternoon.
He sighed inwardly. This particular project was now well behind schedule. He'd hoped to be finished at Munsey by Christmas, January at the latest. Now it looked as if he might still be in residence come the next spring.
'When are you coming cockfighting with me again, Josh? Huh? Great fun wasn't it?' 'Indeed' agreed Joshua.
'Find ourselves another willing lovely like Amy, huh?' Joshua just smiled non-committally. 'If I had a delightful woman like Miss Lawley-Lovelock, I'd not look elsewhere.'
Ralph laughed incredulously. 'She's the sort for marrying, not for good loving. We couldn't do with Lucinda what we did with Amy.'
I was not for one moment suggesting that I could accompany you on any such amorous adventures involving that lady,' said Joshua flatly.
Ralph laughed louder than ever. 'Gad, if you could see your face. You look positively scandalised. Got a soft spot for my fiancee, have you, man?' 'She's a fine woman. But I would never presume ...' 'Alright, alright, don't get all defensive. I'm not accusing you of anything. I'm not going to challenge you to a duel ... not over Lucinda. I'm marrying her because I have to, because it's expected of me' 'Couldn't you refuse?'
Ralph raised his eyebrows. 'What! But why?' 'Wouldn't you rather marry someone you loved?' 'Marriage and love are two entirely separate things' 'That's very much what your fiancee said too' 'My, but you must have some interesting conversations closeted here together,' teased Ralph.
Joshua tried to explain. 'I just don't understand why two people so obviously unsuited should appear to race so blindly towards the altar' 'You're not supposed  to understand'  said  Ralph

superiorly. 'You're just an artist and should stick to what you know.'
Thereafter Joshua kept his opinions to himself and painted on until, inevitably, Ralph declared he'd had enough of standing idle and was taking himself off for a ride on his favourite hunter.
Joshua went for a walk. His mind kept returning to the unsatisfactory circumstances surrounding Miss Lucinda's forthcoming nuptials. She was foolish, he didn't doubt, to think that being mistress at Munsey when Ralph succeeded to the hereditary title could in any way compensate for the inevitable unhappiness that living with such a man would bring. Joshua felt compelled to try to do something.
The afternoon was chill, the grey light fading fast as he passed by the old manor house. With some surprise he spotted Ralph's horse tethered as he passed the adjoining stables. His eyebrows knit and he paused thoughtfully, pulling into the doorway of a tack room. There he watched and waited.
It was dark when Ralph emerged from the squat back door of the house. His hair was undone, his waistcoat unbuttoned, and between the vent of his frock coat hung his shirt tail. It was pretty obvious what he'd been up to.
The next time Lucinda came to sit Joshua felt bound, even though he felt uncomfortable doing so, to mention what he had seen.
She dismissed such a revelation with a brave laugh. 'Men will be men. One day I may also take a lover. Some would say he shows a healthy appetite,' she endeavoured to excuse.
'Some would say he is a lecher,' muttered Joshua.
She tried to look stern. It is not your place to have an opinion, Mister Foxe.'
'Excuse me.'
Lucinda pretended she didn't care. But she did, greatly. Again and again she found herself thinking about Ralph meeting his fancy woman at the old manor. She'd known

what he was like all along. Why then was it all so upsetting? She supposed it had a great deal to do with making her feel inadequate, lowering her self-esteem. What was so wrong with her that he channelled all his sexual activity elsewhere? Good God, if she married him she would be just like the unfortunate Lady Catherine. There would be years and years of betrayal ahead!
That fact preyed upon her mind. Indeed it grew to intolerable proportions. But there was no way out now, not since the engagement had been announced. That would be just too embarrassing for her mama and papa. She couldn't do that to them.
Damn Joshua Foxe for making her think on these matters. Blissful ignorance was so much more manageable.
She was watching the manor. She had been watching it for days, and at last her vigil was rewarded. Into the old yard rode Ralph. He tethered his horse and unpacked a bottle of wine, a haunch of venison and a loaf of bread from his paniers.
Lucinda watched with bated breath as he disappeared inside. Several moments later, when she'd plucked up the courage, she followed.
She had to feel her way in the dark, her neck prickling with fear. Once through the servants' domain and standing in the hallway she paused, listening and looking. There was no noise from downstairs, no chink of light showing around a doorframe. On the stairs a solitary candle burned in a wall sconce. Lucinda came to the obvious conclusion and began to climb. This took an inordinate amount of time. The Turkey stair runner had been removed during the move and every footfall seemed to sound out of all proportion. Every creak was magnified horrendously. At length she reached a no-less creaky landing and crept along, biting her bottom lip painfully with concentration. She rounded a bend, turned left and saw, down at the end of the corridor, a

door that leaked a weak, yellow beam of light from the gap of the bottom edge.
What should she do? Burst in, raging, and confront him and the slut with him? She wanted to. Should have liked to. Indeed, the scenario played itself in her head. But just like Lady Catherine she had been brought up to keep her emotions demurely in check; she just couldn't bring herself to do it.
Instead she sank to her knees and leant into the door, putting her right eye to the keyhole. Conveniently, there was no key in it.
She drew back with shock then refocused. She couldn't believe her eyes even though she had a good idea of the nature of things that might be happening in that room.
Her fiance was wearing nothing but his shirt, his arse, golden in the candlelight, staring Lucinda full in the face.
He wasn't on the bed. Whoever was partnering him was bent over a blanket coffer, only her legs and torso partially visible. Ralph obscured most of her.
He was taking her like a man demented, a being possessed. The violence of his passion scared Lucinda. His loins pulled in and out, his buttocks clenching, his sword of flesh moving back and forth, sheathing itself into the writhing female, who cried out softly, over and over, maddening the onlooker. Lucinda couldn't decide whether the girl was in the throes of agony or ecstasy. Certainly there was no finesse in his coupling; he was a brute. But was she enjoying it? Should she burst in and try to save the wretched girl from further harm? She wasn't sure. The body beneath him didn't fight or struggle. Didn't that mean that she was agreeable to whatever was taking place, no matter how lacking in tenderness it might be? Or, God forbid, Lucinda worried, biting her lip, did it mean that the poor woman was beyond fighting, totally subjugated?
Even as she was thinking all this and entering deeper into a quandary, the female twisted beneath her ravisher and came up beneath him, twining her arms about him

and biting his neck. She didn't fight to be free of him. Her arms coiled tighter and her legs went around him, hooking his ankles and trapping him. He thrust into her gaping wetness once more, his passage easy. Their bodies moulded together, and they seemed made for each other and no one else. Lucinda felt a dreadful pang of jealousy.
He pumped at her wildly, his member large and beautiful, seeming to rend her each time it tore into her soft pale body. Ralph's crisis seemed to be approaching. There was a concentrated look upon his face. His teeth were gritted. With a wicked glint in her eyes, the girl beneath him broke free, and pulled him down off the coffer onto the Turkey carpet, exhibiting a strength Lucinda wouldn't have believed possible, and straddled him. She pinned him down by the shoulders and sank upon his throbbing, glistening member, taking him all in, working upon him with deep, intense strokes.
Now Lucinda could see her face fully, and recognised her with a gasp of surprise. Dulcie! The village wench who'd been missing for a year and more. She was presumed dead or carried off by gipsies. Good God!
Dulcie rode him hard, seeking her own pleasure and finding it, throwing back her head and gurgling wildly as her moment came. She jammed down on his girth and ground and ground as the waves of bliss rippled through her and then died. Immediately she went limp and fell upon Ralph, arse in the air, and Lucinda watched as he, completely crazed now with lust for his partner, caught her hips and drove his staff up into her, quickly, frantically, straining. He came with a long yell of delight, clutching at her, holding her possessively close.
Dulcie was his secret love: ensconced at the old manor, at his beck and call. For months he'd been courting and wooing Lucinda whilst bestowing all his true favours on another. The knowledge filled Lucinda with misery. She might have been able to bear it knowing that he had a string of women who meant nothing to him. But know
ing that there was one who meant so much — much more than herself - was too much.
She was supposed to marry that man and be happy with her lot. She no longer thought that she could. But everything was arranged. Everything settled.
The pair of them now lounged naked upon the Turkey carpet, eating cold meat and bread and drinking wine from the bottle. They were so comfortable with each other, so at ease.
Distraught, Lucinda climbed up from her knees. She was crying but she didn't notice. Later, she wouldn't even be able to recall creeping from the house undetected. Her mind seemed touched by some emptying numbness.
In the dark of night she slipped a note under the door of Dulcie's family home. It was very simple. It read: Your daughter is at Munsey Manor. Guest of Ralph Balfour.
Joshua heard the soft tapping on his studio windows. He lit his bedside candle. Naked, he slipped from his bed, pushed the dark locks from his face and donned his dressing gown.
His eyes widened and blinked as he drew back a curtain and found Miss Lucinda staring back at him through the window pane. She was a mess of red hair, red eyes and running nose.
'Let me in' she groaned.
Instantly he obeyed, taking her by the elbow and drawing her in. 'Miss Lucinda, whatever has happened?'
'I went to the manor ... saw him ... them. Oh God, Mister Foxe, it was so awful. I cannot marry him. Cannot. I'd die with the misery of it all.'
'Poor Miss Lucinda,' he commiserated. It's for the best though. You deserve better. A woman as goodly natured as you should at least find love in her life.'
'Perhaps I'm not loveable, Mister Foxe. I don't feel so. Cerltainly Ralph has never once attempted to initiate anything as earthly as he indulged in tonight with his

woman at the manor. What makes me so different from her in his eyes? I'm as much a woman as she.'
The last was said with a little more spirit as her tears lessened, and Joshua couldn't help but smile.
'Indeed you are, Miss Lawley-Lovelock' he agreed.
'Am I desirable? Do you find me so? Be honest.'
'I find you highly desirable' he declared emphatically. Here was a lady who desperately needed her confidence boosting. He was just the man for the job. And what pleasant work it would be. She smiled so thankfully it was touching.
'You are a handsome man, Mister Foxe.'
He shrugged and grinned.
She stepped up close, eyes tear-bright. 'Would you care to make love to me?'
'I should like it very much. But why don't you do what you most want to?'
She shook her head, looking totally baffled. 'I don't understand you.'
'What of your young man in Gloucester?'
'He can never be anything to me. We are of different classes.'
"They say love overcomes all.'
'Then love me tonight, dear Joshua, and make me forget. Tomorrow will be soon enough to decide upon the course of the rest of my life.'
He drew her into his arms and kissed her ardently, taking her breath away, shocking her with the invading tip of his tongue. It was obvious that she had been seriously neglected in the kissing department. He drew her backwards, and sat on the chair standing sentry beside his wardrobe, pulling Lucinda down onto his lap. His dressing gown had fallen open. He ran his hands up her legs, smoothing her silken thighs above the stocking tops, drawing up her skirts to gain access to her secrets.
She straddled him, her mouth still locked in a heated, delightful kiss. His tongue was devilish, it made her squirm, and brought her alive between the legs with a rush of heat. She groaned, pressing ever closer.

He put her hand to his upthrusting member, closed her little fingers about it, then moved his hand softly, so as not to alarm her, beneath her rustling silk skirts. He traced a warm inner thigh, finding her sex opened to him, her bud already darting excitedly from between the lips, her musky scent wafting up to him from warm, damp folds.
He touched her bud so delicately that she gave a tortured little squeal and smoothed her palms over his turgid member all the more eagerly. He stroked a finger through her wetness, repeated it and then slipped it into her hidden depths. She clenched about it. He moved it gently, stimulating the highly sensitive entrance, making Lucinda arch her body so that her breasts swelled high, almost bursting over the rigid summit of her stomacher. He nuzzled them.
His hands moved round to her hips, and drew her closer. Lucinda put the head of his engorged flesh to her slippery spot, then lowered herself, holding his marvellous length still, encircling its considerable girth as, inch by inch, she slowly worked it in, moving down upon it.
'Oh my but you're huge, Joshua' she said breathily, very obviously impressed. Her whole body trembled a little, thrilling at the feel of him in so deep; a swollen hunk that stretched her wide and set her most sensitive spots afire.
He manipulated her movements with his hands upon her hips, drawing her up and down, tight about his huge shaft, giving her the whole length with each jerking thrust.
Soon she was throwing back her head and crying out, her flesh throbbing about him, raging with sensation. Still he hadn't come. She went limp and he eased her off his hardness, and set her on her feet.
'Again' she said, drugged with pleasure. 'Take me on my hands and knees. He was doing that to her, tonight at the manor. Wipe the memory of it from my mind, Joshua. Take me savagely, like a rutting animal. Use me harshly.'

He shook his head dubiously. 'It is not my way. I like you too much'
'Do it' she demanded desperately. 'You'll be doing me a great service.'
He brought forth the mahogany step, which the maids used to reach the highest drawers in the tallboy. He made Lucinda kneel at it, resting her torso on it, causing her breasts to spill out of their corsetry, her nipples hard. He lifted her skirts and petticoats, exposing her rounded arse and its puckered mouth; her furred cranny and the soft pink folds were wet and glistening, open and eager.
His penis was massive now. Silk smooth and liberally lubricated. He came up behind her on his knees. He was totally naked, his dark locks dangling about his shoulders. He stroked her clitoris, then drew his finger back through her folds, feeling how tense she was, waiting for him to take her. He made her wait a little longer. Then he put the bulbous head of his phallus to her stretched and ready spot and plunged straight in.
Her body arched and she cried out even though she'd known what to expect. He held her still, not allowing her to squirm, pressing her firmly down upon the cool polished mahogany. He rode her as she'd demanded -like a man intent on his own pleasure and blind to the needs of others. He filled her with forceful, measured strokes that achieved maximum penetration. He cupped her breasts and squeezed, his teeth nipping at her nape. He started to spiral upwards out of control, as marvellous sensations began buzzing in his head, his loins, circling his belly. Lucinda was making so much noise that he had to clap a palm over her mouth. They came together and collapsed over the steps, panting and laughing.
When they finally pulled apart, pink with exertion and damp with perspiration, both were smiling contentedly. Joshua wrapped his dressing gown back about himself, suddenly shivering, aware of the chill in the air for the first time since being summoned from his bed.

'I feel so much better now,' said Lucinda. 'Calm. My head is clear.'
'Good. I'm glad. Now we must get you back home to the squire.'
'No, no, stay where you are. My horse is tethered near the grotto. I shall be home in no time. I know the way like the back of my hand ... even in the dark.' She extended her hand and shook his. "Thank you.'
'Goodnight.' Without more ado he let her out.
With the coming of dawn all hell broke loose.
The beadle, along with the local militia, descended upon Munsey Hall, demanding that Ralph Balfour be surrendered up to their custody. They had a warrant for his arrest. The charge was one of kidnapping the village wench Dulcie.
Lady Catherine and Sir Horace stood on the steps of their portico and faced the mob with bewilderment.
This is all stuff and nonsense,' spluttered Horace wrathfully, not caring for the attitude of these underlin-ings. 'Go fetch my son, Squires. He will set the record straight.'
The retainer hurried off dutifully. He came back shortly, looking uncomfortable. He was alone.
Horace frowned, his eyebrows meeting. 'Well, man, where is he? Gad, can't anyone do anything right?'
'He ain't there, Sir Horace. The window to his bedchamber be open and there's a bedsheet a-dangling down from the window to the ground floor. Looks like he's scarpered.'
'He must have seen us coming,' muttered the beadle.
'Better begin searching for the fugitive. He hasn't had time to go far,' said the head of the militia.
Joshua Foxe watched from the sidelines, finding it all highly interesting.
Two days later, with Ralph still at large, another piece of news reached him via the chambermaid. It appeared that Miss Lucinda Lawley-Lovelock had upped and run

off to Gloucester to live with the hostler of a prospering inn on the outskirts. The news gladdened Joshua's heart. He sincerely wished her well. The double portrait was scrapped forthwith.

Chapter Nine
Sophie didn't bother knocking. She jerked open the door and swept into her mother's boudoir. The door stayed open, drawing in a chill draught of air that made goosebumps rise on Catherine's bare arms.
She frowned, waiting for her maid to finish pinning her topknot, and then dismissed her. "Thank you, Mary. Shut the door on your way out.'
Mary bobbed a curtsy and was gone.
Looking petulant, Sophie stared coolly at her mother's reflection in the overly ornate rococo dressing table mirror.
Catherine rose and turned to face her. A book that Sophie recognised only too well was in her hand and a black look of disapproval was upon her face.
"This was found beneath your mattress when the chambermaid changed your bedlinen. Would you care to try and explain? Though I cannot possibly see what suitable excuse there would be for looking at such material as this. Filth ... undiluted filth.'
Contriteness was an alien concept to Sophie. She'd never freely apologised for any wrongdoing in her life, no matter how large or small. And she wasn't about to start now. She shrugged nonchalantly at the leather-bound volume of Aretino's Postures and very nearly

smirked at the way her scandalised mother gingerly held so abhorrent an object. What a prude!
"There is nothing amusing about this' barked Catherine. 'Where did you get this book?'
'From father's library.'
Catherine stiffened with the shock. She should have known it. Like father, like daughter. So there would be very little point in her sending the girl off to Horace for punishment. She would have to administer it herself. But she was reluctant.
'Promise me, Sophie, that you will not read this sort of material again.'
It would have been easy to lie and say yes, but the devil was in Sophie. It was almost as if she took a perverse pleasure in angering her mama. She shook her head, her mouth forming a belligerent line. 'No.'
Catherine stood erect and frowning, handsome in her satin underskirt and tightly drawn-in corset. Her breasts rose and fell almost hypnotically above the quilted and boned garment. 'Don't make me beat you, Sophie. Repent. Be sensible.'
Sophie only shook her head.
'Then you leave me no choice.' She picked up her silver-backed hand mirror and pointed to the velvet-covered stool before her dressing table. 'Bend over.'
Sophie tossed her head and did just that, rigid and full of dignity, looking, Catherine couldn't help but think, much as Mary, Queen of Scots must have done at the block in Fotheringhay Castle.
Sophie bent over the high stool, bottom in the air and face smooth against warm velvet, and Catherine stepped up, lifting up all but the last of her daughter's petticoats.
'This is your last chance.'
Til take my punishment, thank you, mother. Do get on with it.'
Goaded, Catherine struck, through the cotton petticoat, hitting soft flesh meatily with the silver back of the hand mirror, stinging each buttock to lividness.
Catherine was almost in tears; demeaned by her own

actions, ashamed of the vicious delight she suddenly took, but most infuriated by Sophie's scornful laughing upon the punishment block. She appeared to be treating the whole sorry business as some blackly humorous joke.
'Stop it, stop it!' shrieked Catherine, snatching up the last petticoat then and attacking bare, pink flesh. She struck some half dozen more times, her eyes blurred by tears of frustrated anger and self-disgust, watching her daughter's arse clench and relax, clench and relax after each stinging blow found its target.
To her horror she realised that Sophie was actually enjoying her punishment, and was lying, quivering and hot, upon the stool, in a state of some excitement.
Catherine threw down the hand mirror and snatched at her daughter's shoulders and hair, dragging her to her feet. 'Daughter, your soul is in danger of eternal damnation.'
'And what about yours?' spat Sophie, her dark brown eyes blazing. 'What about you, you hypocrite! I've seen you watching him.'
'Who?' Catherine's voice shook.
'Joshua Foxe. You can't wait to sit for him, can you?' Catherine shook her head hotly in denial. 'Despite your protestations to the contrary; you're too busy, you cannot spare the time, and have too much to organize with Christmas soon to be upon us, you live for the day when you are finally alone with him. Indeed it torments you.'
'Nonsense!' Catherine shook her daughter by the shoulders, making her teeth clash and her head wobble. Til hear no more of that. 'Tis all in your head.'
'Is it?'
'Of course. I've had enough of your attitude, Sophie. You show no respect. I shall have your father deal with you.'
'Let us go to him right now then, mother. Yes, let's. I can tell him all about you and Mister Foxe. I'm sure he'd be very interested.'

'What about me and Mister Foxe? What would you tell him? What is there to tell? You are being ridiculous.'
The fury had left Catherine and was fast being replaced by a disquieting unease and absurd sense of guilt. She had done nothing. Nothing of which she need be ashamed, and yet she was aware of a tell-tale blush reddening her cheeks. Who would Horace believe, her or Sophie?
But she could not, must not let Sophie get the upper hand. Catherine truly was guilty of nothing save some rather lurid fantasising. She pulled herself together and stood her ground.
'No, we will not go to your father over something so distasteful. I think it is better if he remains ignorant of your dubious tastes in art and literature, my dear. We don't want you being a disappointment to your papa too, now do we? Meanwhile I shall be keeping a closer eye then usual upon you and, I think, yes, we will be doing a great deal of Bible studies together in the near future.'
'You can't make me. Why should I?'
'Because I say so,' said Catherine with simple authority.
Til go to father -'
'Yes, you could. Usually you have quite a way with him, that cannot be denied. But who would he back in this instant, um: the daughter with the lascivious mind, or the pious, devoted wife? Horace is nobody's fool, Sophie, at least not all of the time. Will you take the chance? Deal with me or with him. Choose.'
Sophie snorted, narrowing her eyes until she looked almost feline. She said nothing. The argument had, it seemed, amazingly, been neutralised.
'You may go now. And send Mary back to me, if you'd be so kind, so that I may finish dressing,' said Catherine, seated once more at her dressing table, watching her daughter in the mirror.
Sophie was half-turned towards the door undecided, her dark brows drawn close in a frown. She opened her

mouth to say something, have the habitual last word, but then closed it again. She went out and quietly closed the door, to Catherine's genuine surprise.
Lady Balfour felt the oddest kind of pride at having thus asserted herself.
Munsey Hall looked splendid beneath its festive trim of holly and yew, red candles and golden baubles. The whole house had been decorated for Christmas with evergreen swags and bows on the sweeping staircase and beribboned garlands on the mirrors and paintings.
The place teemed with guests from Gloucester and Bristol, and Harold and his friends had come up from London. The revelry seemed now to have gone on with little pause for days on end.
Catherine had grown tired and headachey. She couldn't seem to escape her guests, and was for ever obliged to play the gay and sparkling hostess. She longed for the distant dawn that would follow Twelfth Night. Then, at last, they would be going.
Today the guests had lunched at one in the afternoon and were now using most of the ground floor reception rooms. They entertained each other with card games and guest spots upon the harpsichord, although there was also a little gentle flirting and outright pursuit of fellow guests who took their fancy.
Catherine had the oddest feeling that even she hadn't escaped a certain gentleman's amorous attentions on this occasion. She had perfected standoffishness to such a degree that she could normally wither any would-be flirt at twenty paces. But this young friend of Harold's, Henry Carew, was not at all deterred by her displays of frostiness. Today he followed her like a shadow. Whenever she turned around there he was, a little behind her, throwing an intense and anxious look in her direction.
Oh damn damn damn! She needed a flirtation like she needed a worse headache than she already had!
She darted through a door on her left, hoping to remain elusive, and found herself amidst an argument

between her card-playing daughters. She put her hand to her head, groaned, and moved on quickly. The harpsichord was being played in the next room. Margaret Hicks, the local magistrate's daughter was playing something from her repertoire and singing as well. It was the most awful din.
Catherine put on her broadest smile, acknowledged the dozen or so guests lounging around the room with a nod here and a wave there and, looking back to see Carew not far behind, quickened her pace, infuriated.
She entered the conservatory. It was heated with a hot water pipe system to stop the exotic plants withering and dying in the English winter, but it was still rather chilly compared with the reception rooms in the hall, and the guests generally avoided it.
Catherine plunged determinedly in amongst the greenery and hid herself, standing very still and clamping her mouth tightly shut so that her teeth wouldn't chatter. She gazed towards the intricately paned conservatory frontage, through lancet windows patterned by a blanket of condensation, and she reached out a finger to wipe a small patch so that she could see something -anything - clearly.
'Lady Catherine.'
She gave a little squeal and jumped, a hand flying to her heart. 'God in heaven, Mister Carew, how you startled me. Are you following me, man?'
He blinked with rapid nervousness and visibly shrank from her hostile, accusing countenance.
'I... yes ... I wished to speak to you ... privately.'
'Sir, that is not proper. I am a married woman' she told him, frowning her disapproval, and without the slightest hint of sympathy for his plight.
'Madam, believe me, I wish to propose nothing of an ungentlemanly nature to your good self. It is rather of your daughter that I would speak - Miss Sophie.'
Catherine's head came up as realisation dawned. 'Ah!' Lord, how embarrassing. 'Oh dear, I am most frightfully

sorry for my stupid rebuff, Mister Carew. Please excuse my behaviour. How foolish I am.'
"Think no more of it, dear lady. It was not unnatural to make such a mistake. I've had the deuce of a time getting you alone so that I might speak with you on this matter. I can see that it could have been very easy for you to get the wrong idea as to the reason for my following you about.'
Catherine was smiling warmly now and was visibly relaxed. 'You wish to speak to me concerning Sophie?' That in itself was surprising.
He nodded earnestly. 'I thought to sound you out on the subject before making any approach to Sir Horace. Mothers so often know better than anyone what is going on in a girl's head and heart.'
Catherine could only shrug and shake her head. 'I'm sorry, Mister Carew, but as far as my daughter's thoughts and wishes are concerned, I probably know less than you do. You see, we are not close. Certainly not as close as we could be. We have the unfortunate knack of rubbing each other's fur the wrong way and rarely see eye to eye.'
'Oh dear.' He looked suitably glum.
Catherine smiled. He was such a handsome young man and from a good family too. Eligible on all accounts. She patted the arm in his cherry velvet frock coat. 'Don't lose heart just yet. I shall try and sound Sophie out concerning her feelings for you.'
"The lovely creature probably doesn't even know that I exist,' said Carew, wistfully.
Catherine bolstered his spirits back to a state of hopefulness. 'Sir, you underestimate your own assets. My daughter is a great observer of all things masculine.'
The next day most of the female house guests waved off the menfolk on their fox hunt. How splendid they looked, the men in their hunting pink, the women in their black and sage military style riding habits. Not that many women chose to ride out with the hounds, though.

The north wind whipping down over the Cotswolds stung soft faces and numbed dainty fingers.
The remaining ladies congregated in the ground floor drawing rooms, where roaring fires had been lit and liveried servants constantly served hot chocolate from tall silver pots with ebony side handles. Thus the late morning and early afternoon was pleasantly spent. Luncheon was held up until the return of the intrepid hunters.
Catherine watched as Sophie extricated herself from a group of young women, most of them married already and producing heirs, who were indulging in the usual talk of babies, nurses and interfering mothers-in-law. Her daughter went to the alcove bookcase and began idly to look through the books shelved there. Catherine moved in that direction. With Mister Carew out of the way, out chasing some poor vixen or dog fox, this was an ideal opportunity to have a quiet word with Sophie and test the waters.
'It seems you have an admirer.'
Sophie moved her head sideways very slowly, showing surprise at her mother's close proximity and pleasant attitude. Things had been less than cordial between them following the business with the book.
'Oh? Who?'
'Mister Carew.'
The girl's mouth pursed indifferently. She sniffed.
'He's a handsome young man.'
'He's a boy still.'
'He's twenty-three years old, Sophie,' Catherine pointed out.
'I don't care for him.'
'How can you possibly tell? You've not even spoken to the man from what I've heard and observed.'
'Mama, do not think to matchmake. When I want a husband I shall find one for myself.'
'Matchmake? No,' denied Catherine, smiling sweetly. 'But do not write him off without first looking more closely at what is on offer. He owns several houses both

in town and country, and twenty thousand acres in
Herefordshire, by all accounts.' Sophie sniggered. 'You are wasting your time.' 'Is there someone else whom I should know about
then, m'dear?' quizzed Catherine, her gaze now intent. 'No one' said Sophie, of a mind to say no more.
They swept into dinner that evening looking most splendid. The women shimmered in silks and velvets, wearing jewels of every colour and carat; while the men wore their fussiest cravats and most intricately embroidered waistcoats and frock coats. Their perfumes, liberally doused on bosoms and necks to combat their accumulated body odours, added to Catherine's on-going headache. Her temples throbbed; it was difficult now for her to keep smiling.
She had placed Mr Carew beside Sophie and facing Frances who, it soon became apparent, found him much more interesting than did her sister. What a shame Mr Carew's attentions towards her were borne out of pure, well-bred politeness and nothing more.
Catherine observed and hoped. Perhaps Mr Carew would change her elder daughter's mind. But unfortunately Carew was an earnest, awkward young man and quite overwhelmed by the acerbic, perfunctory Sophie. She put him down with ease. Before they'd even reached the dessert course he looked crushed and defeated, and seemed glad to answer Frances's polite questions as to his family background and general state of health.
And Catherine noted something else much more disturbing, and not for the first time either. As she watched Sophie it became obvious that her daughter spent a great deal of time staring up the vast mahogany table, which tonight seated , her gaze going past the handsome young men, to the gentleman on Horace's immediate right, Harold.
The longer Catherine watched, the more certain she became that their relationship was not as it should be. A

shiver of disgust ran through her. Sophie and the debauched Harold? It was just too horrible.
Thinking back, she had never cared for the way Harold pampered and spoilt the child. When had it become more than that? Maybe it hadn't. Maybe she read too much into this; was being a suspicious, overprotective mother. But no. Instinctively she knew what she saw. Their looks, their body language, were all overtly sexual.
Catherine could eat no more. She had to do something. But what could she do? She must think. She should not act too hastily. She was one against many. Horace, Harold, Sophie, even Ralph in all probability, would side against her. And Frances was a dreamer, somehow set apart from all of them, and very little help or use to Catherine. She must get Sophie away from Harold, for her own good. The girl would surely thank her in years to come.
Harold could offer her nothing. He was a user of women, just like his step-brother, and incapable of unselfish love. Being used and using others could be novel, Catherine couldn't deny, thinking of the labourer in the woods, but it degraded and destroyed if it was allowed to become the norm. The thought of Sophie entangled in Harold's particular web made Catherine shudder. They rarely saw eye to eye as mother and daughter but that could never stop her wanting to protect the girl from the dissolute likes of Harold.
When the meal was done and the hordes of guests had withdrawn to the interconnecting drawing rooms, Catherine excused herself, saying that she needed fresh air and quiet, and headed towards the stables.
Sophie rounded on the gentleman who hurried behind her down the corridor beyond one of the drawing rooms. Her face was mean, her mouth pinched and eyes flinty.
Tor the last time, sir, no, I do not care to walk around the ballroom with you. The place is cold, dark and empty. What could we possibly find to entertain us there?'

'Each other's company?' ventured Henry Carew, bravely.
Sophie laughed scornfully and hurried on. Doggedly he stayed on her heels.
She was at the main door of the hall now. She clicked her fingers and a liveried footman produced her cloak as if by magic. She donned it and stepped outside. Henry was behind her, stiffening against the cold.
She frowned and threatened, 'Attempt to follow me out of doors, sir, and I shall, at the first opportunity, knee you in the groin! Have I made myself clear?'
Henry was brought up short by that, staring after Sophie speechlessly with his mouth open. And then he found himself chuckling, low and highly amused. He'd let her go for now, but he wasn't about to give up.
Sophie summoned the groom from his bed in the hayloft for the second time that night and ordered him to saddle a horse for her. She needed to ride and escape, get away from the ardent Mr Carew. So what if he was handsome and she had an undeniable preference for his particular shade of blond? Henry Carew was an untried baby compared to her masterly Uncle Harold. How could she possibly prefer him? It was absurd, she told herself. But she was flattered even so. Perhaps it would be good sport to keep someone like Carew dangling, offering him just enough encouragement to keep up his hopes, but never actually giving anything. It could be amusing. Yes, she'd think about it. It might make the Christmas festivities more bearable.
She'd been riding for some time, not really taking any notice of where she was going. The horse was one that her mother often used and it seemed to have a mind of its own anyhow. It appeared to know where it was heading, so Sophie let the mare have her head.
There was snow on some of the surrounding high hills and the half-moon reflected upon them, illuminating the cold winter landscape. Thousands of stars winked in the sky and the chill north wind quickly chased along any stray clouds.

Sophie looked about herself as the mare cantered on, recognising the terrain over which they now passed and realising that these were acres of her father's lands over which she'd not passed for many years. She'd wandered here as a child, blackberry picking. It was a rocky, steadily rising area, and good for nothing but sheep. She must, she gauged, be at their boundary. Yes. There was the dry-stone wall. Beyond was Squire Lawley-Lovelock's land. She reined in the horse so that she could take time to rub her numbed fingers and, as she perched there upon her prancing mount, trying to get some life back into her digits, a horse and rider leapt over the wall and galloped off down through the pastureland.
Sophie had been sheltering in the lee of high, slightly crumbling wall, hidden from the other rider's sight. Reining in her startled horse and regaining control, she yelled abusively after the black shape of horse and rider. But they were long gone now, merging with the darkness. Still, she had caught a glimpse and felt pretty certain that she knew who the rider was.
But what would her mother be doing out here so late at night? Perhaps she's escaping like me, thought Sophie. Or perhaps she's been for a tryst with her lover. She laughed aloud at the thought.
It was perishing cold and she longed now to be back in the warmth of the hall, but she was intrigued. She dug her heels into the horse's flanks and trotted her on, curious to see if there was any evidence of what her mother was up to. Truly she didn't expect to find any; so she was startled when she did.
The half-moon went behind a scudding cloud, then came out again, just in time to show Sophie where she was heading and stop her from plunging on horseback into a deep excavation in the earth.
'Whoa!' She reined back the horse urgently and took the precaution of dismounting.
Before her, where the boundary wall should have been, was naught but a giant hole in the ground. Helpfully, the moon stayed out now, revealing the open

mine workings, the wooden ladders going down the sheer sides, the wooden ramps zig-zagging up the sloping side to the summit, and the wheelbarrows, pickaxes and shovels.
Sophie was a girl mostly concerned with fashion, music and, lately, sex. But she thought she recognised a mine when she saw one. Why had she never heard her father mention it? She'd had no inkling as to its existence. Now she wondered whether papa did either. Well, well, well. What a diverting little mystery! How intriguing! Obviously Catherine knew, for she'd been riding from the direction of the site when Sophie spotted her. Something underhand was going on here. Some private, secret enterprise.
Sophie looked around thoroughly, noting how the excavations ran from Balfour into Lawley-Lovelock land. How cosy! Could it be that her mama was partnering the squire in some venture, unbeknownst to Sir Horace? Ooh what a hoot! What ammunition!
Sophie had seen enough. Gleefully she led the horse away to a safe distance, mounted up and headed back home. Time for a little bargaining, she decided.
Catherine emptied the twisted paper sachet of headache powder into a glass of water and downed it in one. Then she climbed into bed and sighed as her toes found the warm sheets where the bedwarmer had recently been applied. Oh for an empty house and no need to be courteous to anyone!
There was a knock on the door.
Catherine groaned. 'Yes?'
'It is Sophie, mama.'
'Come in.' Catherine sat up a little more in her vast bed, watching speculatively as her daughter came into the room and closed the door. "This is unexpected. What can I do for you? Have you had a change of heart and mind concerning Mister Carew perhaps?' she asked, ever hopeful of the latter.

A grinning Sophie shook her head. 'Oh no, mama. I've come to talk business.'
Catherine's brows knit. 'Go on. I am intrigued.'
'So was I earlier when I went for a ride and saw you coming away from the mine workings. I had no idea this family had gone in for coal production. Neither, I suspect, has my father.'
Catherine stayed cool and thoughtful. 'Who else have you told about this?'
'No one so far. Perhaps I shan't tell anyone at all if you are nicer to me. You have been beastly of late, you know, mother. Making me do all that tedious Bible reading; taking away my favourite bedtime book. Things are going to have to change.'
'I see.'
'You deny nothing?'
'Rather pointless, wouldn't you say? You seem to have worked it all out beautifully. Clever girl. I'm proud of you for being so quick witted. Now though, Sophie, I really have got the most frightful headache. Do you think we can leave further discussion on this matter until the morning?'
Calculatingly, Sophie nodded. 'Yes. Very well.' That was fine by her. She wanted to lie abed awhile anyhow and savour her triumph. Now she had them all - father, uncle and mother - twisted around her little finger. Such power was heady.
She bent forward and kissed Catherine's smooth cheek. 'Goodnight, mother.'
'Goodnight.'
The hall was quiet. Nothing moved except for the nightlights - for the convenience of any guest who need stray from his or her bedchamber for whatever reason -burning in wall sconces. Catherine moved stealthily down the carpeted corridor, trying to recall which chamber she had allotted Henry Carew.
She wore a scarlet damask dressing gown and matching, heeled mules. The gown trailed the ground for a

yard and more behind her. It wasn't perhaps the most practical style of garment for the clandestine activities she now had in mind. She held a three-pronged silver candelabra before her, and it cast a much larger than life, eerily distorted shadow upon the portrait-lined walls.
She opened a door very gently and crept in, tiptoeing to the bed and peeping through a gap in the drawn bed hangings. Thankfully, Carew and no other slept there. With a hand over his mouth lest he should cry out, she gave his nightshirted arm a vigorous little shake. 'Wake up, sir. There is urgent business to be done.'
His eyes opened and then grew widely startled. 'Lady Catherine?'
'Sir, are you truly in love with my daughter? Will you make her a good husband?'
He nodded vehemently and without the slightest hesitation. 'Oh yes ... yes. I'd die for her.'
'I trust it won't come to that. Well, sir, I have a proposal ... a drastic one, but one which may well secure you your heart's desire. Show me a faint heart now, though, and I fear she is lost to you.'
Henry sat up, put his arms into the jacket she had brought and concentrated hard, willing himself to full wakefulness.
His determined mien made Catherine smile. She passed him his breeches and averted her gaze while he pulled them on and struggled to tuck the ample yardage of nightshirt into the slim waistband. 'You can dress properly later ... when you're away from here.'
'What is it you are proposing, madam?'
'My daughter is in danger of being corrupted if she stays longer in this house. She has fallen under the influence of a very dubious character, Mister Carew. I have tried to talk sense to her but she is proving wilful and foolish. Drastic measures are called for.'
'Yes?'
'You love her, Mister Carew, and I believe, in time, you could make her love you in return. But she will not

give herself to you of her own free will. She needs some persuasion.'
He was listening intently, his eyebrows knit and anxious, a sometimes dubious, sometimes excited expression passing over his features.
'You must abduct her, sir. Tonight and without delay. Pack your things quickly, ready your coach and carry her off.'
Henry looked aghast. 'Madam, I couldn't!'
"Then you are not the man I thought you. You do not want her.'
'Oh, but I do!' he cried hotly,
"Then, sir, put aside your reservations. Take what you want. You can take her abroad with you to the Continent. Didn't you tell me only this evening that you wanted to do the fashionable thing and visit Italy? Take her with you. Have a Venetian wedding. It'll be wonderfully romantic and Sophie will adore it. I'm sure ... once she gets used to the idea.'
The thought inspired him. His eyes were bright. 'Do you really think so?'
T do.'
"Then I will. Yes, I will.' He nodded to himself, as if to underline his resolve.
'Good man.' Inwardly Catherine relaxed, and was relieved. Not only was she seeing Sophie set up with someone highly suitable, but she was also getting rid of a blackmailing nuisance. It was difficult to say which thought gave her the most satisfaction.
From a second-floor window Catherine watched as the coach-and-four was brought from the stable block, its side lamps left unlit, the driver talking to the horses in a whisper.
Beneath her the rear door of the hall opened, and momentarily there was a yellow beam of light fanning out across the cobbles of the yard. Then the candles were blown out by the wind.
Staggering beneath the weight of his struggling, bound

and gagged booty, Henry Carew - assisted by a nonplussed postilion - climbed into the dark interior of his lacquered coach and Catherine could see no more. There was the low rumble of the coach pulling away and then silence.
With a smile of satisfaction, she let the brocade curtain fall across the window once more and walked sedately back to her room, candelabra in hand.
They'd be well on their way to one of the Channel ports by the time the late, wintery dawn broke.
For a day or two, Catherine had decided, upon consideration, to deny all knowledge of the reason behind Sophie's disappearance. Only when she gauged the girl to be safely out of the way across the Channel would she then to go Horace and 'confess' that Henry Carew had declared his feelings for their daughter and, given that the gentleman was absent also, they should put two and two together and come to the obvious conclusion that the pair had eloped.
Horace might be a bit angry for a week or so, but then, gradually, the business would be forgotten, Sophie forgiven and a letter from the supposed honeymooning couple eagerly awaited.
Catherine congratulated herself on a job so neatly done. And, as a bonus, after so trying a day, she found that her headache had now quite disappeared.

Chapter Ten
Foxe had returned to London for a month and more, glad to see the back of the country for a while. But that attitude didn't last long, strangely enough. He found he'd grown attached to Munsey, or the characters in it or maybe even both. In March he returned, his heart lightening the closer the coach sped towards Gloucestershire.
Lady Catherine met him at the back door to the kitchens and pantries, not able to hide her pleasure at seeing him again. She took his hand and shook it with enthusiasm, appearing not to notice at all when he held on to it, clasping it between both hands for good measure.
'Welcome back.'
"Thank you, m'lady. Ready to sit for me?'
'I have worked you into my schedule.'
'When can I expect you for discussion and sketches?'
'Tomorrow morning.'
She extricated her fingers and clicked them, summoning two liveried boys to help Foxe with his trunks.
The next morning the spring sunshine was harsh and bright and Foxe jumped from his bed, giving a triumphant yell 'Yes!' He punched the air. She could not use poor light as an excuse not to turn up.
He was going to seduce her. He'd known it perhaps

from the first moment that he had set eyes upon her. She was a gorgeous woman, and she needed the tender, knowing ways of a man even more than Lucinda had.
She knocked politely and entered shortly after the breakfast hour, looking positively nervous at being in his lair at last. Warily she looked around while he looked at her, taking her in from head to toe, consigning her lovingly to memory.
'Well here I am,' she said, her voice shaking. 'How do you want me?'
'I think perhaps we should talk first about how you would like to see yourself, Lady Catherine. Mood. Setting.'
'Oh. I hadn't thought'
'Please sit down and I will show you some sketches that may perhaps give you food for thought.'
She perched stiffly on the edge of the settee. He sat close beside her, a pile of papers in his hands.
'Here we have a classical pose with an outdoor theme. This one is the more commonplace style of portrait.'
'Like you did of Horace.'
He nodded.
She shook her head. 'I don't think anything quite so stuffy and grand is for me. I had thought, rather, to have a simple head and shoulders study. That would spare the expense of buying a new gown.'
He looked comically aghast and shook his head vehemently. 'Lady Catherine, if I am to paint you then I wish to paint all of you.'
'Then, Mister Foxe, what pose would you choose for me?'
He searched quickly through the papers and set one before her. She balked immediately, going stiff beside him.
'But she's ... she's naked!'
'So she is. And that's how I want you. The real you. Not the wife and mother. What I want is Catherine the woman, the beautiful creature.'
Her words came out in scandalised gasps. 'But, Mister

Foxe, I could not. Simply couldn't. No. No way, sir. Pray find something else more suitable.'
He sighed with exaggerated disappointment and left her holding the sketch of the reclining nude amongst Grecian ruins, whilst he sought something safe. His head kept shaking. Again and again he rejected poses and settings with definite 'nos'.
'But I liked that one' she argued as a rider and horse study sailed, rejected like all the rest, to the carpet. They were surrounded by sheets of paper. Finally Catherine was left with naught but the nude study in her lap.
Adamantly she shook her head. 'No, sir, I have already made up my mind. Besides, what would Horace say?'
'He would be flabbergasted and rightly so' said Joshua, making her smile despite herself. 'Your husband should perhaps be reminded of what a delightful wife he has.'
'My husband finds me boring. Familiarity breeds contempt.'
"Then why not shock him out of such an undesirable frame of mind?'
'Your logic is quite absurd' she laughed.
"Then we have reached stalemate' he said flatly.
'Not quite. I have had one idea that has been kind of floating in my head for some time. I quite liked the thought of being painted in the grotto by candelight. Candelight is kind when one's youthfulness has gone.'
He sat back and blinked. 'Well, it's novel.'
'What do you think?'
'I would need to give the place a thorough look over. I cannot say more until I've done that. There will be difficulties painting in such poor artificial light. But, yes, it is possible. It would certainly be different' said Joshua, warming to the idea. 'Indeed I shall go there directly and take a look, then report back to you, Lady Catherine.'
'Splendid.' Gingerly, as if it embarrassed her even to touch and look at it, she handed him back the nude sketch and rose formally from the settee. 'You will find me in the morning room.'

The grotto had been constructed off a little shrubbery-secluded path that ran around the ornamental lake. As flights of fancy went it was very impressive. Subterranean, and with one tiny inlet of light that overlooked the dark waters of the tree-shaded lake, it felt like entering another world.
Artist and sitter walked there the next morning. Most of Joshua Foxe's material and props were already in position, carted there the previous afternoon by the gardeners.
With a boltable door and fireplace to keep away the dank chill from so earthy a garden feature, it was the ideal trysting place. That was exactly why Sir Horace had had it built.
There was nothing inside save a stone couch, built by the window so that the occupants could enjoy a view across the lake to the park beyond. Its ceiling was stone vaulted, the spaces between the walls of the cell completely covered with shells as was the latest fashion.
Catherine was thankful to find the place warm. Indeed it was positively hot; the coals on the fire glowing a cheery orange, the radiated heat pinkening her cheeks.
A Turkey rug took away the chill and plainness from the flagstoned floor near the couch. The stone couch itself had been softened with thick layers of sheepskin and an oriental silk throw draped negligently over the top. With candles burning in wrought-iron sconces and freestanding candelabra, the atmosphere was positively fantastic. It was as if Catherine had stepped into a fairytale.
Joshua set down the wicker hamper inside of which was their lunch. He gauged her reaction with a grin. 'You like?'
'It's a delight. I'd like to move in' she laughed.
'Your choice was inspired.'
'Am I to sit or recline upon the couch?'
'Recline, most definitely. But first we must see to your dress.'
'But, I am dressed, Mister Foxe. I picked this gown specially. It is one of my finest.'

'Indeed it is. But black velvet and satin in so austere a style would be a little incongruous in such a setting. I've given it a great deal of thought. Indeed, I've thought of dressing you up in a special costume ever since I departed for London at Christmastide. I took the liberty of procuring something for you.'
She could only gape at him, growing wanner by the minute in her velvets and petticoats.
'I toyed with the idea of something Grecian. But then I thought it should have an Eastern flavour. Such costumes are very much in vogue at the moment. Orientalist painting is extraordinarily popular. I'm not surprised. After I visited Italy the year before last, I travelled to North Africa. Morocco is truly inspiring. I came back with sketchbooks full of ideas, of studies; though the men were definitely easier to paint than their women, as the females are jealously guarded. Tunisia and Algeria were so hot and vibrant, I can't describe them in any way that would do them credit, Lady Catherine. But they fired my blood.'
Catherine was frowning, looking dubious. 'Where is this costume?'
'Right here.' He retrieved a box from beside his easel and paint boxes. Even the box was a delight: large and shallow, wrapped in powder blue and white striped paper and tied up with an extravagant blue bow.
Catherine sat down on the couch and removed its lid with a dizzying feeling of expectancy. She drew forth the items, her head shaking in confusion. "There is no dress in here, Mister Foxe. Nothing of any substance - just some flimsy pieces of gauze that I couldn't even begin to fathom how to wear.'
'Let me show you a drawing, Lady Catherine, and then you can better understand how I wish you to wear the articles,' said Joshua, patiently. The sketch was readily to hand. He had obviously thought of everything.
'Here. See?'
She perused the sheet of paper, her eyebrows highly animated. The almond-eyed lovely in the sketch wore

the strangest creation Catherine had ever seen. On her crown was an embroidered cap of black silk, trimmed all around with small silver coins. Around her hips was a girdle of the same. Bound about her breasts was a length of silk gauze that hid nothing. And from the girdle hung voluminous pantaloons, caught at the ankles by bands of silver.
'Don't tell me they wear this sort of thing all the time?'
'No. It's very much for special occasions. For the pleasure of the husband, I believe. So, what do you think?'
'I couldn't possibly have my portrait painted in something like this. Sorry. Horace just wouldn't understand. He wouldn't think it at all appropriate' she said wistfully.
'But do you like it... for yourself?'
She nodded her head with honest enthusiasm. 'I love the idea. And if I was ten years younger -'
'Rubbish!'
His impatience made her jump. 'Mister Foxe!'
'Lady Catherine, you vex me when you talk so. I think you most beautiful.'
'Hidden beneath my gowns, held in by my corsets, no doubt I can give that illusion on a good day.'
He took her firmly by the upper arms and held her with increasing pressure, staring sternly into her eyes. 'I'll hear no more of that. You are beautiful.'
'If you say so,' she laughed, not taking him seriously, thinking him a smooth flatterer.
His fingers dug into her and he shook her then, his eyes blazing. 'Do not play light with me, madam.'
She gasped, her eyes as round as saucers. 'Mister Foxe, you forget yourself.'
He flung down her arms in a rage, and said stiffly, full of controlled anger. 'I beg your pardon.'
His passion disturbed her greatly. 'I don't think you do. I think you would like to shake me until my teeth rattled.'
He shook his head, then he began to laugh, and the

tension between them evaporated. For a moment or so Foxe was thoughtful, then he addressed her squarely.  have a proposal.'
'Yes?' She couldn't help but sound dubious.
'We'll do two paintings. One official. One for your private pleasure and my personal satisfaction. We'll use the grotto setting for both but in mine you'll wear my costume and in yours you'll wear your modest gown of black velvet.'
'It'll be double the work.'
'I don't care.'
'How will you fit it all in?'
'I shall work on the portraits at night if need be. They will both be candelight studies and so daylight is not essential.'
'And I'll have to wear this?' she said. She plucked a portion of flimsy silk from the box, frowning comically.
'Yes. The turquoise colour will suit you admirably.'
Her head was shaking even as she uttered a whispered, 'Very well.'
He smiled with satisfaction.
'But where am I going to change?'
He whipped the silk throw from the bed. T have thought of that. I hold this, so' he said, taking its corners and holding out his arms like a windmill, 'and you can dress with complete privacy behind my screen.'
She raised an eyebrow. 'It doesn't seem very substantial to me.'
'You have my word of honour that I shan't peep.'
'But how will I manage my laces?'
He frowned. "That's a tricky one, m'lady. I could help, and I promise to keep my eyes shut.'
'Yes, somehow I feel that you've had enough practice at such things that you could do very well with your eyes closed. If I'm agreeable to wearing your revealing costume then, logically, I should forget modesty, false or otherwise, I suppose.'
He held up the shimmering screen and Catherine undressed. In truth she couldn't wait to get out of her

velvet dress. She was so hot. The stomacher ribbons she could manage on her own but she had to call upon Foxe's assistance with her corset.
'Ooh you poor thing. How it leaves your flesh marked and damp where it draws you in.'
'Mister Foxe' Catherine reminded him, sternly, 'you are supposed to be doing that with your eyes closed. We had a bargain. Now hold up the screen and avert your eyes.'
She was free. It was wonderful. Her petticoats were bunched in a pool around her ankles. She kicked off her shoes and rolled down her stockings, turning her attention then to the contents of the box. Several minutes later she had managed to dress herself, but it was several moments more before she plucked up the courage to say so.
'Ready.'
The screen collapsed and was spread back over the couch. Joshua was standing there looking at her, his eyes radiant.
'Yes. Just as I imagined.' He sounded positively gleeful.
'Have I done everything right?'
'Exactly.'
"The cap of coins wouldn't fit over my topknot though.'
"Then I shall rectify that immediately. I have brought a comb and even a small tin of the type of cosmetics they use in those far-off countries to accentuate their eyes. Sit.'
She did so as docilely as the best behaved child, keeping quite still while he took the pins from her tawny hair and brushed it out. He took his time over the task, enjoying it immensely. The golden-brown locks curled almost lovingly around his artful fingers. With her hair brushed back simply and allowed to rest casually upon her shoulders, the cap fit perfectly, and looked quite charming.
He smudged dark colour onto her eyelids, turning her

eyes smoky and soft, and then touched a hint of red stain to her pretty mouth, watching how her lips twitched at the contact. 'There. Now you are ready.'
Catherine broke eye contact, though she found his dark gaze mesmerising, and climbed onto the couch. Reclining, she carefully arranged the folds of the pantaloons. They were a tricky item of clothing indeed, having an open crotch which mostly stayed concealed because of the voluminous cut of the fabric but which, just once in an unpredictable while, gaped open and exposed her intimately. She had never felt so exposed or naked; she told herself that someone like Joshua Foxe wouldn't take any notice of a body like hers. Artists were used to nudity. It didn't affect them, it was all part of their work. But that didn't stop her being acutely embarrassed.
He knelt on the edge of the couch and manipulated her this way and that, very professional in his manner, until he felt he had her in the best position. Then he stepped back and took an overall view, nodding. 'Yes, I like that. Are you comfortable?'
'Yes' she said, sucking in her breath to try to diminish the roundness of her soft belly that pressed out past the girdle of coins.
'Relax' ordered Foxe, working quickly. He was inordinately happy. 'You look gorgeous.'
She didn't believe him but she liked to hear him say so. It was so uplifting.
T shall expose the real Catherine.'
'Knowing what you did with Horace, that prospect fills me with anxiety.'
'You are nothing like Horace.'
'In many ways most definitely not' she laughed.
He put down his sketching block and moved about the cockleshell cell, adjusting candles and setting the light so that it shone from a different angle. 'That's better.'
'More flattering?'

'More becoming' he corrected. 'Don't put yourself down.'
As always Foxe soon became absorbed and the conversation dried up. Neither was uncomfortable in the silence.
Catherine, looking so relaxed as she rested on her hip and elbow, smiling at the artist, had gone into a kind of trance from staring at the same point for too long. Actually, she was transfixed by his androgynous beauty.
His black-clad form dominated the room. He was tall, slim, and very fetching in his simple, stylish clothes. She'd had to revise her opinion of him over the last months. He wasn't a fop, as she'd first branded him, but an astute gentleman making his way in the world, pandering to the extravagant needs of the upper classes. She admired him. He was what he had made himself. No one had left him a fortune to squander.
Presently he looked at his silver pocket watch and raised his eyebrows. It never ceased to surprise him how swiftly time passed when he worked.
'Luncheon?'
'Good. I'm ravenous,' said Catherine, stretching thankfully and wrapping the throw about herself. It was at least partially concealing, and she was very thankful for the cover.
She took a plate and helped herself from the cold chicken and preserves, the bread, the ham and the curving, rind-edged Cheddar cheese. He uncorked the wine and poured.
She sipped slowly, concentrating on the food until Foxe set the sketches he had done before her. Her face brightened with surprise. They were charming. Much better than she had dared to hope. She wasn't the lumpy creature she'd always pictured in her mind.
'I have heard, Mister Foxe, that some artists have a tendency towards flattery of their subjects.'
'But not I, Lady Catherine,' he said plainly. 'I always paint what I see.'
'You have an intimate eye.'

He nodded, liking the description. Tell me, Lady Catherine, have you ever thought of taking a lover?'
Her sip of wine went the wrong way, and began choking her, coming down her nose. As she coughed, more liquid jumped from her glass and soaked her cover and costume.
He jumped forward, dabbing at her apologetically with his lacy handkerchief. Her breasts were splashed, so too her midriff and belly. He mopped up, not thinking, touching her more intimately the lower he went, until the lacy sponge was pressing between her legs, catching the droplets that glistened upon her curls. A shock ran through her and she slapped the hand away, glaring at Foxe. She was horrified, when she looked down, to see her bud poking excitedly between her sex lips.
When the coughing lessened and she could catch her breath, she spoke icily. 'You are most impertinent, young man, and deserve no answer.'
'I beg your pardon. Excuse me. I forgot myself. Perhaps we should continue with the portrait?'
She shook her head, too agitated to sit for him longer today. 'No, I think not. I've had enough. Perhaps we'll continue tomorrow... I don't know.'
He didn't try to stop her. She was very angry and he feared making things worse. She snatched up her cloak and enveloped herself, throwing her gown over her arm and struggling into her shoes. She left without another look in his direction.
He worked on after she'd gone, not too perturbed. He felt he knew her pretty well, that no real harm had been done in the process of planting some highly fruitful seeds. By the time he left the grotto it was almost dark and he had completed his preliminary work on the canvas, the ethereal shape of Catherine already apparent.
Back at his studio he bathed and shaved, then wound rags in his newly washed hair so that it would curl on the morrow. While he stood before his mirror winding the last of these, he felt reasonably confident that Cath-

erine was thinking about him, and, that she was feeling somewhat flattered.
Lady Catherine did appear the following day, though her demeanour was exceptionally frosty. She wore her costume under her cloak so that there was no necessity for Mr Foxe to help her undress.
For a while Joshua worked in silence, asking only if she was comfortable. She replied flatly that she was. The rain came down steadily outside, pattering across the glassy surface of the lake. Inside, protected from the elements by the tiny, arched mullioned window, they were warm and snug, cocooned in their silent, subterranean world.
Joshua decided that the silence had gone on long enough. But he would have to be very careful about the topic of conversation he chose.
'Is there any word of Ralph?' he enquired, sounding very much like an impartial observer of their family affairs.
She gave a shuddering sigh. 'No. Nothing. He is a man with no concept of honour or disgrace. I've long since had misgivings regarding his character. Now I'm full of shame. How could I have produced such a son?'
'I think it was perhaps his father's influence which made him the young man he became. You must not feel responsible.'
'But mothers always do none the less' she said wryly.
'And is there any news concerning the village girl, Dulcie?'
'Our vicar called upon her family on my behalf to tender my apologies. According to him she appears none the worse for her ordeal, poor girl. Indeed he said that when her father raged, calling for justice, demanding that Ralph be hung even without a trial if caught, this creature Dulcie defended him, pleading for his life. Extraordinary.'
'Could that mean she had some feelings for her captor?'

'I wondered the same thing. It does seem likely.'
Now the ice was broken he couldn't stop himself mentioning yesterday's disharmony. I'm sorry for my behaviour. You must have thought me very bold.
'It is just that I believe in being honest about my feelings. Hiding behind a facade is tragic.'
She cocked an eyebrow. 'And you think I do that?'
'It appears so.'
'Perhaps it is rather that I remember my position and will not overstep the mark.'
He laid down his palette of ochre, umber and raw sienna and stepped up to the couch, kneeling to rearrange the draperies of her billowing pantaloons. Instantly he could see that his nearness disturbed her.
'Are you frightened of me?'
'Don't be absurd. Why should I be?'
'Because you know I want you. That I'd like to take you right now. Find your woman's place amongst the gossamer folds and love you thoroughly ... as you deserve.'
She laughed nervously, trying to sound scandalised. 'Mister Foxe!'
'Catherine.' Her name flowed off his tongue like velvet.
'You forget yourself.'
'Rarely. And if I do it's because I am bewitched. I fell under your spell the first time I set eyes upon you.'
'That's silly.'
'It's true.'
Inch by inch he was moving closer. Inch by inch she moved back, her eyes round and fearful. Soon she was flat on her back amongst the sheepskins and there was nowhere to go. He blotted out the candlelight, his mouth descending to hers, kissing her. It robbed her of breath, scrambled her brains; his tongue darting, flickering, making such licentious promises.
Her body turned instantly to fire. She was lost. She'd known all along that she would offer no real resistance.
His hands travelled over her, adoring her, familiaris-

ing themselves, smoothing her cheek and jaw, neck and shoulder, cupping her breasts. He moved aside the silken binding, freeing her luscious flesh, kissing each peak to prominence before returning his lips to hers. His hands fondled her lightly, avidly; moving on quickly to her belly and her mound. He ran a palm over her sex, so delicately and enticingly that Catherine strained up against him.
His mouth travelled again, down her throat and to each breast, then on, down over her soft belly, down to where his hand had coaxed so fleetingly and persuasively.
She watched him dreamily, intercepting a lascivious look from his velvet eyes. They burned into her, melting every bone in her body. When he parted her legs and the gauze fell away to expose her tawny secrets, she had no will to fight him or protest. She wanted him. She would have him. It served no good purpose to deny herself.
His kisses travelled on down, skimming her thighs, making her legs tremble. Then his dark head moved back up and he homed in on her bud, seeing it clearly, standing proud of her pink folds, hard and excited.
She squealed then stiffened with the wildest thrill of excitement as he slaved at her very centre of pleasure-dom. He caught her thighs and drew them up gently, wrapping them either side of his face. His tongue toyed with, then whipped through her crease, back, up, down. She grew wetter and hotter. She was writhing and groaning. The hard dart thrust at her, making her convulse, wriggling where she was most sensitive and Catherine came violently, exploding out of nowhere, screaming mindlessly and clutching at his dark locks. He stabbed into her until the last wave of pleasure had washed over her and her body had collapsed, replete and vanquished.
She stared up at the cockleshell ceiling, shaking her head gently in amazement. 'Good heavens!'
He smiled, rearranging her limp legs so that she was back in her former pose. Only now the gauze no longer

covered her secrets. She was displayed for the artist and thus would he paint her.
She couldn't believe what had happened. He painted on now as diligently as before, only his knowing smile giving him away. He'd given her the most delightful pleasure without once thinking about himself.
She was greatly impressed.

Chapter Ten

The next morning Catherine all but ran to the grotto.  Joshua was there awaiting her, candles and fire lit, palette ready with little peaks of paint.
The usual pleasantries were exchanged and then Catherine took up her position on the couch, and struck her pose. Joshua did a little rearranging of her costume, moved a lock of hair over slightly on her shoulder and then proceeded to paint with gusto.
Catherine watched him intently, smiling when their eyes met. He smiled back, preoccupied. Her heart, which had been beating crazily on arrival, gradually slowed down and she breathed calmly; a feeling of expectancy increasing as time passed and no sexual advance was made.
Luncheon came and went pleasantly enough. They talked mostly about the two paintings, the grotto's architecture and the break in the weather.
Disappointed, Catherine lost her smile by the time the afternoon session neared its conclusion. Her pose was stiff, and the tension in her neck almost unbearable.
Time to call it a day, I think,' decided Joshua, wiping his fingers with a turpentine-soaked rag.
Feeling thoroughly let down now, Catherine wrapped her cloak about herself almost violently and wished him a mumbled good day.

He held the stout oak door open for her, smiling devilishly. His dark eyes were bright and knowing. 'Until tomorrow, Lady Catherine. You know, you have the most appealing pout.'
She gave something approaching a snarl by way of reply. He was playing games with her. Yes he was. And she was having none of it.
The next day she wore her black velvet gown just to be awkward.
He shook his head at her. 'It will not do.'
'I am no fool, sir. I know you don't require me to be in costume every day. Today you could paint my face.'
'But I don't feel inclined to, Lady Catherine,' he told her plainly. 'We artists are a temperamental lot. And today I want to concentrate my efforts on your costume. If you will not comply then you might just as well go back to the hall.'
'How dare you dictate to me!'
T wouldn't dare. I was merely -'
'I know what you were doing alright. But just remember who is employer and who is servant here, Mister Foxe.'
He swept the floor in a flourishing, totally mocking bow. 'I am your humble servant, madam.'
'Oh, stop playing games,' she snapped, exasperated. 'Help me undress then if I must wear the costume.'
He started to unlace her gown down the back.
'The screen up if you please.'
He laughed incredulously. 'What is the point when we both know that I have seen most of that delicious body of yours and done a great deal more than just admire it with my eyes?'
'Oh damn you, sir, for a clever clogs!'
He chuckled. It was a rich, infectious sound. Catherine found herself joining in reluctantly.
Her gown fell to the floor, her petticoats followed. She stood before him in her chemise and corset. The hem of the short silken garment hung in a kind of frilly skirt

from beneath the oyster silk corset, barely covering her puss or buttocks.
Her eyes locked with the smouldering Foxe's and in an instant she was in his arms. She kissed him back, their tongues playing. He held her so tightly she felt short of breath, what little air her corsets allowed forced out of her. She felt light-headed.
His hands were everywhere: her shoulders, her neck and arms, her thighs, cupping her buttocks. He lifted Catherine and carried her to the couch, lying her face down and putting a bolster beneath her belly to raise her arse. One hand stroked her warm pussy lips, quickly making her wet, and the other unbuttoned his breeches. She was as hot and ready as he and when she felt the head of him at her spot she braced herself eagerly, even pushing back against him.
He lowered himself over her, kissing her nape, her ear lobe; caressing her breasts which had spilled lusciously over the top of her corset. He slipped into her beautifully, slowly filling her, allowing Catherine to savour every delightful inch of penetration. Fully in he was huge, and she began to groan deliriously. He gyrated his loins so that she gasped and squealed. While he was deep inside her, she snaked a hand between her legs, feeling where he had entered. He was hot and thick. He was stretching her. She cupped his balls and gently rubbed them one against the other. Joshua groaned and quivered, his penis rearing inside her. Then he began to fuck Catherine, holding her hips, pulling out then going in slowly and forcefully. He made her cry out with each deep thrust of penetration. His hands cupped her breasts and tweaked her nipples. She whimpered, pressing back against him, wanting all, wanting more. Her puss was throbbing, its bud buzzing with sensation that built steadily out of all proportion. She was coming, there was no stopping it and no way that it could elude her. It hit her in waves, making her stiffen. Joshua's hands were sweeping over her like tongues of fire, his fingers kneading her buttocks. One strayed up her arse as he too started to climax. He

caught Catherine's throbbing body to him, pressing a palm to her mound, his loins thrusting; his tight buttocks clenching in spasms as his moment arrived. He pumped like a machine, groaning and crying out throatily, filling her with his essence.
Exhausted, they collapsed and, snuggling close, pulled the silken throw over themselves. It was nearly the hour for luncheon and not one stroke had been done on the painting.
He worked a little in the afternoon, concentrating his efforts on her flesh, bringing her limbs, belly and breasts to life. He'd persuaded her over lunch that she should have her breasts bare. The gauze binding was now simply draped across her so that one breast spilled forth, full, pink and hard-nippled.
She agreed. By then she would have done just about anything for him. Besides, she liked what he was doing. Her portrait would be wicked and wonderful. She would keep it hidden, all for herself. And when she was old and decrepit she would take the occasional look at it and have a good laugh.
'Enough' said Joshua, and she rose from the couch, stretching luxuriously. The air was cool around her hot, wet puss. She slipped on her mules and padded to the easel, standing beside the artist to admire his work.
'I almost wish Horace could see it when finished,' she giggled.
'It'd likely give him apoplexy.'
'Yes, very likely,' she said, in agreement.
'Why don't you then?' Joshua urged, the devil in him.
She laughed uproariously. 'Are you mad? Mister Foxe, your painting will leave nothing to the imagination. He would be horrified.'
'It might make him realise what a fool he's been in overlooking you for so long.'
She shook her head. 'I doubt it. Besides, I'm beyond caring what Horace thinks of me.'

Horace didn't think of Catherine. She was always there; he didn't really see her at all. And when she wasn't there - her portrait seemed to be keeping her conveniently occupied of late - he jolly well made the most of his freedom. He invited friends over and they hunted, wenched, gambled and got drunk.
When the day had dawned warm and clear, promising the first truly hot day of the year, he sent his grooms off with invitations to his favourite cronies and women friends.
Roman Orgy Today
The Bathing Room, Munsey Hall Don't Forget Your Toga
The boilers were lit and the pumps manned. The vast stone bath would take hours to fill and painstakingly maintain at a comfortable tepid temperature.
Horace donned sandals and a bedsheet and sent a maid off to the gardens to find bay leaves to fashion into a crown so that he could play Julius Caesar. Meanwhile he tripped off to the cellar to select his wines. The kitchen staff winked and nudged at such goings on, and prepared a cold buffet.
Munsey Hall had of late lacked discipline. Horace was often drunk. Catherine was in a dream. The less conscientious of the staff took life as easy as they could. A lassitude hung over everyone and everything. Speculation was rife, especially concerning her ladyship and the artist. Many commented on the great deal of time that the two of mem spent closeted in the grotto.
By midday Horace's guests had arrived. They tucked into luncheon, growing more animated and noisy as time passed. At length they drifted towards Horace's bathroom, bestowing marks out of ten on each other for ingenuity of design of their togas. Bedsheets, tablecloths and curtain linings had all been utilised to great effect.
One imaginative female had even decorated the hem

of her short toga with a Greek key using beetroot juice and a watercolour brush. It was a pity that it would all probably just float away when she got in the water.
The bathing room had no windows. Light came in through a domed skylight. Its walls were all dressed cream stone with niches set in at intervals to hold classical statuary. All around the bath were flagstones inset with expensive marble friezes and carved benches.
Light blazed in from the turquoise sky above, playing with almost harsh brightness on the light stonework and white costumes. Around the bath low stone tables in the Roman fashion bore the weight of bottles and glasses, fruit and cheese. Upon divans rested Horace's guests, drinking, joking and telling lewd stories.
Horace descended the stone steps, the faintly steaming water swallowing him up to his chest. He made for the nearest female, the Honourable Cassandra Willets, and groped her under the water as she luxuriated.
Her improvised costume was floating freely, leaving her semi-naked and quite inviting. She laughed wickedly at Horace and splashed him provocatively. He grabbed her boisterously and kissed her throat and breasts, sucking noisily upon her nipples. He was in a youthful, faintly uncouth mood, devoid of even an attempt at finesse.
As she grappled playfully with him, trying to topple him in the water, he stuck a finger up her arse and pulled her hungrily against his stiffening sex. He struggled and grunted, trying to enter her, but found it extremely difficult under water. She didn't help. She was laughing and playing, evasive until the end. Eventually he achieved penetration, slipping up into her. He staggered a little, with her impaled upon his shaft, unsteady in the shifting water. Someone jumped in and the water surged about him, sending Horace off balance. Entwined, they sank, struggling and choking, bodies parting. Horace came up spluttering, and fortunately was gentleman enough to grab his partner and haul her

out. She was breathless and spitting, but she couldn't stop laughing.
He dragged her to the steps and fell upon her there, sinking into her once more, easily now, burying himself and caressing her silken wet thighs.
'Much better out than in the water, hey m'dear? Still, it was worth a go. Got to try these things.'
'Yes, Horace. I want to try everything before I die.'
'Well, you've made a good attempt so far' he complimented.
She beamed a smile. The Honourable Cassandra, although only in her late twenties, had made the pursuit of pleasure and excess her life's work. Her reputation went before her. She was the kind of woman that Horace could wholeheartedly admire. So much like himself.
He fucked her quickly, then they messed in the water some more before finally climbing the steps and lying on their sides on a divan, belly to belly. From the table at the head of the divan they ate grapes lazily and guzzled wine, her hard nipples prodding him; his sex soft and tickling against her inner thighs. While they rested they watched the others.
One female sat astride a togaed gentleman who moved, horselike, around the floor on his hands and knees. He nayed like a pantomine horse and pawed the air, supposedly imitating a rearing stallion.
'Down you beast' ordered the woman straddling his back, her short toga barely covering her arse. She slapped his bottom with the flat of her hand, her stinging palm leaving a red imprint on his rear. He nayed louder and moved around the floor then at a fair gallop.
With her bottom perched on the sill of a wall niche, another female was taken, her partner standing up between her legs, his length thrusting up into her, visible to all. Her legs were wrapped high around his back. He looked like a rutting beast, dragging and pushing at her folds, his balls tight.
On another divan a certain baron's wife was geting steadily drunk. She hardly seemed to notice that there

was a half-naked man between her legs, making outrageous piggy snorting noises and snuffling at her wide-open sex. She munched a grape and absently popped one into his mouth too. He held it artfully between his teeth and squeezed, so that the juice spurted and sprayed her clitoris, making her squeal delightedly. Then he licked her and the grape juice all together, lapping crazily until she came violently to life, holding his head captive to that spot and closing her legs about it. Thereafter all that could be heard was a low, ecstatic moan.
Elsewhere one overindulgent fellow who'd imbibed too much wine now knelt with his head in the wine cooler, throwing up and groaning, while his equally drunk male partner used his arse, oblivious or maybe indifferent to his plight.
Horace looked about, as he pushed his newly erect shaft into the playful Cassandra once more, and gave the faintest of nods. Yes, there was no beating him when it came to party fun.
Catherine had seen Foxe with the girl outside the dairy. She had seen the way he smiled, whispered something close to her ear and chucked her under the chin.
She dismounted and called imperiously for a lad to come take her mare. Then she stamped towards the back of the house in her scarlet riding habit, tricorne hat and black leather riding boots. Her crop was under her arm and she removed her black leather gauntlets as she went. She ignored everyone, rushing through them like a whirlwind. The servants backed off warily.
She barked at Grimes the butler. Tell Foxe I want to see him immediately in my chambers.'
'Yes, m'lady.' He bowed and scurried.
She was seething. Not even the infuriating Horace had ever got her this mad. She trembled throughout her body, her hands shaking behind her back as she waited for him, holding tightly to her riding crop. She was still in her habit with its fashionably masculine cut and antique braiding. She'd only removed her hat and let her

hair down. She made an impressive, wholly provocative sight.
She didn't have to wait long.
He knocked and entered, looking anxious and out of breath. 'You wanted me? It was urgent, Grimes said. Is everything alright?'
Her eyebrows almost met as she frowned, narrowing her eyes.
'No, everything is not alright. I saw you in the yard just now ... with the dairymaid. You were so preoccupied with your flirting that you didn't even notice my return from riding.'
A look of relief washed over him. Is that all it was? Such a fuss about nothing, Catherine.'
'Lady Balfour,' she reminded him tersely.
'Very well, Lady Balfour,' he amended, frowning now, his voice crisp.
'What is she to you?'
'Nothing.'
"Then what were you doing?'
'Merely passing the time of day.'
'You looked very friendly to me, man.'
'I am by nature. That I cannot deny. It is my way with women. I cannot change.'
'But I'll not tolerate it.'
'You have no choice.'
Her eyes blazed. She took a step forward, shaking in a jealous rage. 'By Gad, I could strike you!'
He laughed. That was all the goading Catherine needed. She launched herself at him and lashed out, hitting him about the shoulders and chest, that being just about as high as she could reach.
He tutted with a sneering impatience that infuriated Catherine beyond endurance, and caught her wrist in midair.
'Don't you act all high and mighty with me, Catherine.'
'Unhand me this instant, you knave. I shall call the lackeys. I shall,' she threatened, as he twisted her wrist

painfully and made her drop the offending crop. The glint in his eye unnerved her. I'll have you horsewhipped. I'll have you thrown in the stocks and pelted with rotten food.'
'Will you indeed' he said, grabbing her and hauling her to the bed, he now in possession of the crop. 'Is that before or after I whip your arse?'
For a second she was so startled by the prospect that she didn't even struggle. Then she fought him like a tigress. 'If you so much as lay one hand -'
He was on the edge of the bed by then with Catherine over his knee. From his pocket he produced a large, clean, lace-edged handkerchief. This he used to gag her without more ado, cutting off her venomous threats.
He lifted her skirts, his left hand clamped across her thighs and, crop in right hand, traced it across her buttocks. She stiffened incredulously. He wouldn't do it. He wouldn't dare.
The first lash struck out of nowhere, making her stiffen, buck and gasp. It brought stinging tears to her eyes. For several moments she remained in a state of shock, her arse throbbing, as the pain receded. Then the next tongue of flame flashed over her flesh and she stiffened once more, groaning, savouring the pain, the throb and the sting.
Eight times he struck with the crop, criss-crossing her buttocks with glaring red welts, ravaging her body. Catherine was crying, tears and snot soaking into her gag. Her whole body had turned to quivering, boneless jelly except in that spot where it throbbed and stung, glowing with a delicious pain.
She no longer struggled. She was pliant in his hands. He dropped the crop and pulled her onto the bed, onto her knees, placing her bed cushions and bolster beneath her to raise her arse. He got behind her, and released a penis fully aroused and hugely proportioned and ran it through her pussy juices. She was hot, quivering and wet. He shoved it into her punishingly and took her violently, thrusting right in, hard and repeatedly; one

hand stroking her bud and slipping through her silken lips, the other fondling her buttocks. He caressed them with a cool palm, before pushing two fingers up her arse. He pumped relentlessly, bringing them to a peak together, burying deep, grinding, and circling with his loins; thrusting on until the very last wave of intense sensation had passed through both of them.
He collapsed upon her and stayed there for many minutes, his flesh softening and slipping from her. She was calm now. Calm and quiet. All the fight had gone from her. She turned a little beneath him and spoke in a soft, apologetic voice. 'I am sorry.'
'I forgive you' he said, trying not to smile, and kissing her tender buttocks.
She stood beside him and studied the painting. It was almost finished bar a few highlights and afterthought brushstrokes. It was almost as if Foxe was ekeing out the work, making it last; reluctant for their time in the grotto to be over.
Catherine could understand that. She was going to miss it all dreadfully. She loved 'their place', even the earthy smell of it and the dankness that the roaring fire had never been able to eradicate entirely.
She hated the thought of it reverting to its former use - one of Horace's trysting places. Somehow that would sully it.

When he'd been informed that it was being used as the setting for Lady Catherine's portrait he had obligingly declared it off limits to everyone else. This meant that Mr Foxe could leave his equipment, canvas and props there and not have to have them taken backwards and forwards to the house by the servants daily. This had lent an air of something approaching permanence to the grotto and its contents. Foxe had the key and when he left every day he locked up, leaving the coal scuttle outside the door for one of the servants to refill for the next day.

They'd had privacy. No prying-eyed servants who might report back to Horace. No irritating interruptions.
She adored her paintings. Both of them. But the exotic one more so. She smiled at it, arm in arm with Joshua who stood readying his palette for the day's session.
'I love it, though it does seem a trifle immodest to say so, me being the subject matter.'
'I think we can forgive you' he said mildly, smiling. Absent as always, he mixed his paints, his mind full of technical wizardry that would turn blobs of pigment into a creature on canvas who looked as if she could step out of it, living and breathing.
When he painted, she'd noticed, he went into a trance-like state, fully absorbed and yet still able to converse with her in an automatic fashion. She thought him wonderful; the things he could do with paint quite beyond her comprehension. She'd never admired anyone so much before.
She looked at herself on canvas - all rounded breasts and plump sex. Yes, that was her and she was a handsome creature. She knew it now. He had made her see it. She felt like a whole new woman.
He kissed her cheek as she stood in profile. 'Undress for me.'
The way he said it made her shiver like some silly girl. She began to untie the bows of her stomacher and moved towards the couch and the costume that lay there. She was warm and dreamy.
'Do you remember the first time?' she asked.
'But of course.'
'You gave me so much pleasure. I couldn't believe it.'
'Are you hot now?'
'Very.'
He set down his palette and gave her a certain look. It was all knowing, all promising. 'Would you like me to cool you so that you feel more comfortable during your sitting?'
She nodded.
'Stay where you are then.'

She didn't move a muscle, she just stood before the couch in her black velvet gown with its crimson bows, watching him coming to her and dropping on his knees.
He lifted her dress, her satin underskirt and her cotton petticoats. Obligingly, Catherine took hold of them, and kept them hoisted up.
His hands glanced upon her white, silk-stockinged legs, past the lacy garters inset with brilliants, going on up over smooth warm flesh until they found her dampness. He gently held her open, his fingers probing delicately. Then his tongue snaked down wetly through her folds and Catherine shuddered, gurgling at the back of her throat. His tongue flickered over her, circled her bud, playing upon it until Catherine was moaning, her legs trembling and her knees wobbling. She began to sag weakly, overcome with sensation, tipping back onto the couch.
Foxe opened her fully, smoothing her inner thighs as he invaded her with his wet tongue, kneading at her buttocks and pulling her up to meet his thrusting, delightful dart. She began to cry out, to squirm, then she came in tremendous pulses of delight that were slow to die.
As she lay there, panting, her corsets depriving her of breath, Joshua released his penis from his breeches and slipped it into her sweet wetness. He brought her legs up, encouraging her to wrap them about him, then rammed at her, her tight depths milking him, drawing at him, bringing him quickly to a climax. He cried out through gritted teeth, his penis throbbing and rearing, pumping all into her deliciously soft, warm body. He collapsed upon her and was reluctant to move for some moments afterwards. Then he wiped Catherine with his handkerchief and pulled down her skirts. Her smile was now dreamier than ever.
He tucked in his lace-edged shirt and buttoned up his breeches, grinning wolfishly as he went back to his easel.
'All relaxed now?'
'Delightfully so' she said breathily, kicking off her

shoes and rolling off her stockings. As she straightened she gazed out through the little lancet window, off across , the lake. She gave a start.
'My God, it's Horace. It looks as if he's going to pay us a visit.'
Immediately she pulled her stockings back on, all thumbs now, worked her feet into her shoes and she began retying the bows down her stomacher.
All the while a cool Joshua was removing the nude canvas and replacing it upon the easel with her demure, black velvet clothed portrait. The nude he propped against a wall in a dim corner and covered with a dust sheet.
'How do I look?'
'As if you've just been ravished,' he joked.
'Oh God, do you think he'll notice?'
He laughed, shaking his head. 'Horace? Never. Relax. Take your pose. I think I can hear him on the gravel path. No, wait, just one moment.' He dashed forward.
Her eyes widened in panic. 'What is it?'
'Nothing. I just wanted to kiss you,' he said wickedly, delivering a smacking kiss to her lips.
She gasped. He was mad. She laughed almost hysterically. She had barely composed herself before the door groaned open, thick and heavy sounding and Horace put his head round. 'Am I interrupting something?'
She feigned happy surprise. 'Of course not, m'dear. Come in.'
He nodded to Foxe, who inclined his head and smiled back politely, standing aside, palette and brush in hand, so that Horace could take a look at the lady in black velvet on canvas. Horace's eyebrows raised appreciatively. T say, Foxe, well done. I like it. Never seen her looking so good. You've worked miracles.'
Catherine rolled her eyes and faintly shook her head. Typical Horace.
Joshua's brows knit. 'Lady Catherine looks good all the time, sir, in my opinion. Perhaps you should take the trouble to look at her a little more often.'

Horace was visibly taken aback by the rebuke. He laughed if off, feeling that to issue one of his own was beneath him.
'Nearly finished I'd say.'
'It is, sir. One or two more days work and that will be it.'
'Good. Good. Time is money as my wife is always reminding me.' For the first time he took the trouble to look properly at Catherine, and raised an eyebrow as if surprised. 'You're looking positively radiant, m'dear. You feverish or something?'
She smirked, shaking her head. 'I don't think so, Horace.'
'Colour's a bit high in my opinion.'
'Well I feel fine.'
Even so he looked dubious and put a lacy handkerchief over his nose. If she was going down with something he didn't want to catch it. He headed for the door. 'I'll be off then. See you at supper.'
'Yes, dear.'
There comes a time with an artist and his work when he knows he has to stop. There is that final brushstroke that finishes the painting. Go beyond it and the project may begin to look overworked, may lose its spontaneity. It's a very fine line between one and the other.
Foxe had made that final stroke and was now standing back and scrutinising critically. He nodded almost sadly and laid down his palette, dropping his brush head first into a jar of turpentine. 'You are finished.'
Catherine should have been full of excitement. She should have run to the easel to take her first look, but she knew it would hardly have altered since yesterday when she'd last admired it. And anyway, she felt terribly sad.
'Are you satisfied?'
He nodded thoughtfully. 'I've painted you as you truly are. For that I'm glad.'
'An eye most intimate.'

'Others have made a like observation.'
'What now?'
'Luncheon' he declared lightly.
She tried to be cheerful.
'A special meal to celebrate the completion of your portraits' he said.
'But I don't truly feel like celebrating.'
'Oh but you must, Catherine' he cajoled. 'Cook went to a great deal of trouble over this buffet luncheon for me.'
'Yet another poor woman who has fallen victim to your charms, no doubt.'
They ate a little, picking at the tasty morsels, dutifully trying everything, making appreciative noises and sucking their fingers. They drank thirstily, wanting the quick heightening of spirits to draw them out of the descending gloom. Two bottles of the finest French sparkling wine were consumed. After the meal they downed brandy and sucked on sugared plums.
More than a little tipsy, Catherine staggered to her feet, half-sliding, half-falling off the couch. She began removing her costume; coined headdress first, then pantaloons. The gauze that had draped her breasts in the painting already lay on the floor, having slipped off earlier, unbeknownst to the fuzzy-headed lady.
She stood naked and bereft, actually on the verge of tears in the middle of the grotto. 'Goodbye costume.'
Joshua blinked to clear his vision, though he was by no means as inebriated as she. 'Keep it. Yes, I insist. I'd never use it again anyhow. I couldn't bear to see another in it.'
'You are so sweet, Joshua' she cried, drunken tears sliding down her cheeks. 'So adorable. I love you, you know?'
'Yes, of course you do' he laughed, knowing it was the drink talking.
'No, I do. I really do.'
'I believe you.'

She didn't think he did. He wasn't taking any of this at all seriously.
He'd begun to undress, having it in mind to finish their meal in the most agreeable of fashions. But she was behaving erratically, and looked of a mind to thwart his plans.
'I'm going for a swim,' she decided.
He was immediately anxious, and hurried to remove his clothes, though his drunken fingers didn't cooperate as much as he would have liked.
'You can't. You'll .drown.'
'No I won't.' She was at the door.
"The water's freezing. Come back, Catherine. Some-one'll see you.'
'I don't give a damn.'
He was nude now. Tall and slim, his skin was pale in colouring but he had those dark eyes and hair. He was as pretty as a girl. He sped after her, wincing as his bare feet hit the gravel path. Thankfully she'd veered off it quickly, and was headed towards the lake. Stumbling and breathless, his eyes not focusing properly, he caught her at the lakeside and stalled her immersion in the dark waters there.
'You don't want to swim,' he told her.
'I do,' she insisted.
'No. You want to fuck, out here with mother nature. Up against a tree.'
She giggled. 'Ooh you naughty man. There's only ever one thing on your mind.'
'When I'm around you, yes. You should be flattered.'
 am, I am,' she vowed, most sincerely, looking comically serious. T love you, you see, Joshua. Love you madly.'
>    'I know. You've told me,' he said lightly, infuriating her.
'Do you love me?'
'So much it hurts. So much that I have to have you right now or I shall burst with my need of you.'
She felt the harsh bark of the tree against her back.

Then she was pressed into it, his torso hard against her, warm and firm. His smattering of chest hair tickled her breasts. Her hands went around him, touching him everywhere, her caresses fairy light.
'You have a lovely body' she said.
'It worships yours.'
'And you have the sweetest tongue.'
'And it worships you also,' he said smoothly, kissing her and pushing it between her lips.
She groaned, kissing him back ardently, opening her legs as his thighs applied pressure between them. His penis rose up soundly between them, hot and heavy with longing. He pressed into her and it prodded her belly almost bruisingly. She groaned louder, her arms tightening about him.
He ran a hand down her belly, caressing her curl-covered mound, allowing a finger to slip between her warm, damp lips and play tantalising upon her bud. Her legs opened wider of their own volition. Her body wanted more, much more.
He bent at the knees and then straightened, his shaft rising up into her, filling her and forcing her wide. He cupped her buttocks and Catherine wrapped her legs around his back. She felt him go all the way in, the wide base thrusting and stretching her, torturing her senstive entrance. His large proportions filled her, making her cry out over and over again. And her tightness brought the same response from Joshua. Each stroke was like exquisite agony, firing his flesh, making him thrust harder, deeper and out of control. He grunted with pleasure.
He held her firm against the tree, pumping and jerking, taking them both upon that upwards spiral that ultimately brought blessed relief.
She felt herself coming, her puss screaming in escalating delight and then she cried against his dark head: 'Oh yes, yes, yes, oh God ...'
He gave half a dozen frenzied, almost brutal thrusts and yelled out his joy. Then his knees buckled and, still

jerking and coming - waves of sensation washing over him - he fell to the soft grassy floor, still holding onto Catherine, his penis still buried deep within her and throbbing with the dying waves of bliss.
They lay in a crumpled heap for many minutes, breathing calmly once more, an occasional giggle erupting from Catherine. It was the footfalls in the leaves and grass, approaching them, that brought them rudely to their senses.
'Someone's coming!' she cried in fright, disentangling herself and scrambling to her feet.
Joshua lumbered up in a state of languid exhaustion. His reactions were slow to say the least.
Coming towards them through the trees and, evidently, not yet aware of their presence, was one of Horace's gardeners.
'Oh deary, dear' squealed Catherine, jumping behind Joshua. The thought of one of her servants catching her stark naked made her want to curl up and die.
Joshua stood there, hands over his privates, a stupid grin on his face.
The gardener saw them at last and stopped in his tracks, a look of uncertainty on his face. Poor devil didn't know what to do for the best. 'Mister Foxe?' Even as he was saying that he was trying to look beyond Joshua to the female half-hidden there. He could see her legs quite clearly and now and then a lock of hair blew into view. He was almost certain, though he could hardly credit the evidence of his own eyes. 'Lady Catherine, be that you?'
She groaned miserably, staying close behind Joshua. 'Yes it's me.'
'What're you doing out here?'
*   She laughed incredulously. 'What a stupid bloody question, man!'
Yes, he supposed it was. He looked apologetic. 'I'm sorry to have disturbed you,' he said, awkwardly back-stepping the way he'd come. T never saw nothing. Me lips are sealed.'

With the crack of a twig and rustle of leaves he was gone, disappearing into the greenery.
Catherine fell into Joshua's arms with momentous relief, laughing uncontrollably.
'Let us go get dressed' said Joshua, sensibly.

Chapter Eleven

Catherine walked to the oak tree with Frances. A little behind them the girl's maid followed, carrying a wicker basket hill of mending.
Joshua was positioned near the tree, having already chosen the aspect he most cared for and the crucial timing for the light.
It had been decided between Lady Catherine, Sir Horace and Mr Foxe that the youngest daughter would be painted in the park a little way from the hall. Thomas Gainsborough had made outdoor portraits very popular over the last few years. Frances was happy to do whatever was suggested; it became clear to Foxe very early that she dutifully deferred to her parents in all things.
'Well here we are, Mister Foxe' said Catherine, coaxing her daughter forward. 'May I introduce Frances to you?'
Joshua beamed his friendliest smile in the shy girl's direction and bowed low and gracefully, almost sweeping the grass with his lacy cuff. 'It is a pleasure to make your acquiantance, Miss Balfour.'
He'd seen her at a distance on occasion but she mostly gave him a wide berth. He could not recall that they had ever spoken. She seemed excruciatingly timid.
She extended her hand but kept her eyes downcast as

he took it and bestowed a quick, formal kiss. 'How do you do, sir?'
'Well, thank you.'
'And this is Columbine' said Catherine, trying to keep everything light and cheerful. 'Frances has requested that her maid keeps her company while you paint her portrait. Do you mind?'
'Not at all,' said Joshua. 'Shall I include her in the painting?'
Catherine raised her eyebrows, looking from Frances to Joshua then back again. 'I had not given it any thought. It might be nice. But it would be extra work for you.'
'I do not mind if the painting takes a little longer than anticipated ... just so long as I am paid for my time.'
'But of course. Well, Frances, what do you think? It is your portrait. Columbine is your maid.'
'I think it a very nice idea, mama.'
The maid, tall and willowy, with rather protruding teeth, gaped with open-mouthed surprise. Tainted? Me?'
'Yes, why not' nodded Joshua. 'We can have Miss Frances sitting in the foreground on the bench beneath the oak, as we decided. And Columbine beside her, slightly in shadow so as not to detract, in profile, doing her mending. It could be quite charming. I shall pose them now, Lady Catherine, and do my preliminary sketches. You can see them this evening and decide, with Sir Horace, whether they meet with your approval.'
'Splendid. Then I'll leave you to it.'
He nodded, instructing the young women as to position and making the final adjustments himself. He issued a gentlemanly 'excuse me' each time he was obliged to actually make physical contact.
Catherine wandered away, feeling surplus. She was feeling a might wounded too that he hadn't paid more attention to her when she was there.
Foxe was quite taken with the youngest Miss Balfour. She had the same hair and eye colouring as her mother.

Indeed he found himself thinking that Catherine would have looked very much like Frances when she was young. Before Horace.
Frances sat quiet and still in a cream cotton gown sprigged with a print of pale grey bows. The stomacher was fastened with grey ribbons, and a wide ribbon of the same tied her picture hat under the chin. She was a pretty, delicate thing. She looked terribly nervous in his presence and Foxe was almost frightened to talk to her. Instead he talked to her maid. Columbine was much more friendly.
'Are you a local girl, Columbine?'
'Aye. I lived in the village before coming t'work at the big house. I go visit my folks one Sunday in four.'
'How long have you worked here?'
'Since I was ten. I'm seventeen now.'
'And always for Miss Frances?'
'Since me training, yes.'
'Excuse me' said Frances in a small voice.
'Yes, miss?'
'May I scratch my nose? I have the most infuriating itch.'
His smile turned to a warm laugh. 'Of course. You do not need to ask.'
She rubbed the tip violently with her index finger, giggling with relief.
'Hand back a little to the left in your lap. Yes, that's it. Perfect.'
She smiled, then cast down her eyes once more. He was enchanted.
Four weeks had passed. Four weeks and there had been nothing between them but a polite exchange of words. Catherine felt that she would go mad.
One night after supper when Horace had gone to dine with a friend in Gloucester and was safely out of the way, she went to his studio.
Foxe opened the door. 'Hello.'
'May I come in?' she asked frostily.

'Of course.' He stepped aside.
'I miss you' she said, seeing no point in beating about the bush.
'I have been very busy with the painting. The weather is so perfect at the moment. I want to make the most of it.'
'How goes it?'
'Well. Your daughter is a delightful sitter.'
She stood stiffly in the middle of the room. How could it be so awkward with him now when once it had been so easy and natural? I'd better go.'
'Do you have to?'
He was just being polite, she felt. There was no passionate pleading in his voice. If she had stayed he probably wouldn't have known what to do with her.
'Yes' she said bluntly and hurried past him.
Oh damn damn, how awful, how humiliating. She had made an utter fool of herself chasing after him. It was over, that was obvious. Theirs had merely been a dalliance while circumstances forced them into each other's company. He had done with her.
Would he now seduce Frances? Had he seduced Sophie? It was just too painful.
She moved along the candelit corridor on the ground floor like a soul in eternal torment, speeding up wildly as she went.
Two minutes after she had left him, the exhausted Joshua fell onto his bed, still wearing his shirt and breeches and entered an exhausted, deep state of sleep. He had been overworking for days, wanting to have Frances's portrait finished by the beginning of July so that he could accept a proposed commission elsewhere. A certain earl in the wilds of Northumberland wanted his latest mistress immortalised on canvas. Joshua knew he must be punctual or perhaps lose the job. After all, mistresses were notoriously here today and gone tomorrow creatures. He might get all the way up there and find that the earl had tired of her, sent her packing and was busily looking

around for a replacement. An artist's profession was a precarious one to say the least. Add to all this the fact that he'd talked himself into painting a lady's maid as well, of all things, and he began to think that maybe he had bitten off more than he could chew.
He tried not to think of Catherine at all. She was the sort of complication that could mess up his whole life. He hadn't bargained for her at all, or the way he felt about her.
She let herself into Horace's study and headed for his drinks cupboard. He kept a good stock of Genever in there. She took a bottle, certain that he would never miss it and clamped her teeth around the cork. It came out with a pop.
She drank and grimaced. She drank again, taking two or three quick gulps then gave a resounding belch. Its effect seemed too slow so she drank some more and wandered out of the study. She crossed the vestibule and opened the main door, turning the key and sliding the bolts.
The steward came across the marble floor, his wooden heels clicking. 'Can I help you, Lady Catherine?'
'No. I'm going for a walk,' she told him, already half out of the door.
'But, but...' He stood there helplessly.
'Go to bed, man. I'll let myself back in,' she barked, heading down the steps to the lawn. Before her distantly the moon played silver over the rippled surface of the lake.
At the little wooden jetty Horace had had built out into the waters of the lake, Catherine found the rowing-boat. She giggled delightedly, temporarily forgetting 'Foxe, the heartbreaker, in her drunken state. She fell into the craft, all tangled in her skirts and dropped her bottle in order to take up the oars.
She'd never rowed a boat before, though she'd seen others do so and had an inkling as to how to go about it. She gave it her best efforts, catching many a crab before

she'd progressed very far across the calm waters. After a while she grew tired, so she lay down the oars and took up the Genever again. She lay in the bottom of the boat, her head propped on the plank rowing seat. She gazed up at the starry, moonlit sky. It was a gloriously warm summer night. She sighed deeply, very drunk. 'Umm.'
The boat drifted along as did her mind. It came to rest on the far shore, not far from the grotto. Suddenly she was up above looking down at herself. The dishevelled female in the rowing-boat grinned up at her, and gave a limp wave.
'Are you wicked?' she asked.
I don't know. I should like to be' she replied.
There were different faces now, hovering just above her as she lay, abandoned, in her rowing-boat. She grasped the empty bottle in her hand.
They were swarthy and wore bandanas and silver and gold hooped earrings. Their hair was raven black, straight here, waving there, tied back with brightly coloured strips of rag. They wore striped and particoloured breeches, voluminous shirts only half-buttoned or laced up at their chests, and brightly embroidered boleros. They were all grinning at her.
She smiled back, not daunted by so many dark, wolfish faces. 'Hello.'
They didn't speak. Perhaps they didn't know the language. Maybe they were the true gipsies of Dravidian descent. Their smiles were very white.
They bore Catherine up out of her boat and carried her off. She did not cry out. She was curious. Besides, she was so under the influence of drink that she drifted in and out of reality, until she had no idea what was or wasn't real any longer.
Their barrel-roofed waggons had been drawn into a circle in a clearing in the copse. The women sat on the steps to their gaudily painted homes. In the middle of the circle burned a bright cooking fire, complete with black cooking pot suspended from a wrought-iron crane.

In all the stories Catherine had ever heard of gipsies there was always a setting such as this. She was thrilled.
Someone was playing a tambourine, another a fiddle. A pretty young female with long wavy black hair, sang some ancient Romany song whose words made no sense at all to Catherine. Though by this time very little was making sense anyhow.
She was carried aloft into their midst and twirled this way and that in time to the music. This made her feel quite nauseous. The women exhibited some anger and resentment at her presence. She was, in their eyes she felt, very much an interloper. But the men seemed happy enough.
As Catherine twirled quite inelegantly amongst the lithe, rhythmic males, some of the camp women joined in jealously and jostled her, one of them knocking Catherine to the floor. She stayed there, too drunk to get to her feet, laughing when one of the men came and knelt over her. His body swayed, and there was a song on his lips. He was serenading her, she was sure. It made her giggle, though why she couldn't positively have said. Nothing was making much sense. But then, it wouldn't, would it, because none of this was real. She was dreaming.
He lifted her skirts, still swaying to the music. His singing was softer now, full of velvety sexual promise; his black eyes smouldering. He kissed Catherine from her garters to her pussy: warm, full-lipped caresses that made her feel wet and eager, and totally abandoned.
He pulled her semi-limp body up onto her knees so that they were torso to torso, swaying in time to the music.
Lovely, she thought, lulled to such an extent that when he took her there and then, on her knees, before every-> one, she only smiled and sighed at the feel of his meaty heat slipping into her.
The audience were rapt. The other men pressed in close, wanting to see where he had entered her; his fat girth going in and pulling out, her pussy tight yet accommodating.

The women claimed their lovers, determined that Catherine shouldn't command their attention, pulling them away to caravans, and into secluded shadows beyond the bright glare of the camp fire.
The gipsy came, thrusting in time to the ascending climax of the violin's tune. He pulled out of her, and let her fall back into the grass. She was disappointed. She was on fire now with no way to quench it.
Another tune started, the violin soaring as it played an erotic melody. Another man drew Catherine to her feet and danced with her. She was so close to the fire that it scorched any bare flesh and made her damp beneath her clothing. Still in the man's arms, she started undressing, fumbling with the bows of her stomacher. Her dancing partner produced a knife and cut the laces up her back. The gown fell from her. 'And my corset,' she begged, turning her back to him again. He obliged. She gave a delicious cry of freedom as it was expelled like a shell casing from the outside of her body. Now she was like the gipsy women, free and comfortable, dancing in nothing but her chemise and petticoats. It was delightful.
The man in whose arms she danced spun her in the air, catching her expertly in time to applause from the circle of onlookers around the fire. Catherine squealed with delight, which turned into pure pleasure as she slid down his body, onto his aroused manhood. He plunged up into her, thick and hard, going in to the hilt.
There were yells of envy and encouragement from the crowd. He swayed with her in his arms, her arms around his neck, and he cradled her buttocks and moved her upon his shaft in a sensuous rhythm. The music, the woman and the man all climaxed together.
She was laid down again. Another man came, lifted her skirts, and took her by the hips and slid himself into her wetness. She was easy now. Languid and accommodating, half-asleep even. She murmured happily.
After him came another, who turned her over, trying to make her stay on her knees, though her limp body

was far from cooperative. He took her from behind, pulling her breasts free from her chemise and rolling her nipples between thumb and forefinger as his length slipped in and out of her, taking up a more punishing rhythm as the fiddle music speeded once more towards a violent crescendo.
Catherine collapsed face down, giggling. She rolled sideways, thinking she'd like to sleep a little.
A gipsy lay beside her, his breeches already undone. His belt had been thrown aside, and his long, slim penis was fully aroused. He pulled Catherine atop him and slid straight into her. She couldn't sit upon him however, which was what he'd wanted so that he could play with her lovely breasts. She fell upon him, limp and soft, sighing cosily.
Men crowded around, lifting her petticoats aside so that they could see where the bodies were joined.
She straddled the man, her pink pussy lips silken and wet, her woman's place full and stretched by a hard sword of flesh that jerked up and down, sliding smoothly back and forth, dragging her soft skin. He was wedged deep within her.
They commented. They made appreciative noises. They told the man to move this way and that so that they could watch his sex move in hers every which way. He jerked, he thrust. He pulled nearly all the way out and slid all the way in again, bringing forth a chorus of impressed murmurs. He stayed in deep and gyrated, making Catherine moan in unconscious pleasure and tighten about his girth. The men liked that, the way her body responded. They told him to do it again. Gladly he obliged.
Again she moaned, this time wiggling her rear a little. It was all the invitation one particular man needed. He unbuckled his belt and dropped his breeches, displaying a penis very much in proportion to the rest of his bearlike frame.
The men around him looked gleeful. They knew what he had in mind. They nodded and urged him on. With

the fat head of his member he drew moisture up from between Catherine's pussy lips and pushed it at her arse. She was tight and resisting. The onlookers offered all manner of advice.
He took two fingers, ran them through her sex and then probed again at the puckered mouth of her arse. He went in with one finger, followed it with the other, laughing as he felt her muscles tightening about them. He worked on her entrance until she was relaxed and wet, a little easier than before, then put the considerably larger head of his penis to the same spot.
Catherine was moaning softly, barely conscious, aware of the pleasant sensations washing over her body, the gentle motion of the man fucking her. She did not feel the thing up her arse until it was most of the way in. It was huge. She struggled in shock, but was too dazed to do more. It drew out and pushed in again; the man's balls slapping at her sex. It rubbed against the other penis already moving in her. Very soon she was clutching at the shoulders of the man beneath her and crying out as she came intensely. Only to find that they were still in her, still fucking and her body was reponding all over again; she was coining again. The thing up her arse pumped relentlessly, filling her, stretching her, and jerking violently when its moment came.
She thought that would be it. She wanted only to sleep. But when they slipped from her hot, wet body there were others to take their places. She gave herself up to them, drifting continually on the outer perimeters of reality.
She raised her head a fraction off the plank seat in the rowing-boat. Hammers banged on the anvil in her head. She groaned and lay still again. She was parched, her tongue furred. She moved uncomfortably and brought the Genever bottle out from beneath her hip, glaring at it and throwing it overboard.
What the hell was she doing here on the shore of the lake? Reluctantly she searched her memory. She couldn't

remember much after leaving the hall. She looked down at herself and gave a horrified gasp. Where were her clothes? She was in her petticoats and chemise and they were greatly mussed; stained by grass and heaven only knew what else.
She heard a horse and, glancing over the rim of the boat, could see Horace coming along the edge of the lake in her direction. She panicked. She felt guilty about something though she couldn't say what. For a moment or two she dithered, then she took the only action she could think of, and threw herself overboard. The water only came up to her breasts. She ducked herself under, washing her face, loosening her hair, then came up with a gasp and splash as Horace neared. Gracious, the water was cold!
He reined in his horse, startled by the sight of her.
'Catherine?'
'Oh, hello, Horace. Out for a ride?'
'No, I've just returned from Gloucester.'
She remembered now. 'I hope you enjoyed yourself?'
He waved that aside. 'Whatever are you doing?'
'Why, bathing of course. It was so hot. I couldn't resist.'
'How will you manage without a bathsheet?' he asked, shaking his head. 'Really, Catherine, you can be so impulsive but not very practical sometimes.'
'Ah, oh, yes. I wasn't thinking. As you say, it was a whim.'
'I'll have the maid bring one out to you when I return to the hall. By the way, I met the beadle on my way through the village yesterday evening. He said Ralph had been spotted near our boundaries. I didn't see any sign of him this morning though. Just the remains of 'some illicit gipsy camp on our land. Thieving beggars! Doubtless they helped themselves to my pheasants and rabbits while they were here. Good job they've moved on or I'd have set the law on 'em.'
He didn't notice how quiet or pale Catherine had become. One word, that's all it had taken, and her

memory - the horrible memory, had come flooding back. Gipsies. They'd helped themselves to more than his pheasants!
'Anyhow, m'dear, don't stay in there too long. T'ain't good for a body, you know. Doctor Wylye's always saying so.'
'No, Horace,' she said flatly, disappearing beneath the cold waters with eyes and mouth tight shut. She felt bad. Really bad. She was never, never, never going to drink again, she silently vowed.
She had made a special effort. She had chosen a peach, sprigged cotton dress and straw hat, with a tassel-edged silk shawl draped about her shoulders. The weather was glorious and Mr Foxe painted on determinedly, fully absorbed in his work while the light was so perfect. He had no conversation for anyone.
Frances and Columbine sat achingly still, feeling hot and tired after so long beneath the dappled shade of the oak tree.
They no more noticed Lady Catherine sauntering by than did the artist. A whole chorus of naked opera singers could have burst into song behind him and it is debatable whether his brain would have registered the fact. So he did not intentionally slight the charming looking Catherine.
She strolled by, only yards away. 'The portrait goes well. I am impressed. Frances is delightful.'
Nothing. He painted on, his body poised and his arm resting on his mahlstick. His face was so close to the canvas sometimes it was a wonder his nose didn't get covered in paint.
Wounded and offended by a shirted back that remained steadfastly turned to her, Catherine frowned and moved on, an angry quickness to her steps then.
'Oh dear,' said Frances, giving a girlish titter. 'You have slighted mama, Mister Foxe.'
'What? Lady Catherine? Where?' He straightened and

looked about, disappointed to see the woman stamping up the terrace steps.
'She spoke to you and you didn't even notice' said Columbine, shaking her head in mock reproach.
'Oh dear.'
'You will get the sharp side of her tongue next time you meet.'
'I fear so, Miss Frances. Now please, young ladies, you're losing your poses. Resume them immediately for I am at a crucial stage.'
They groaned in unison. 'Can we not have a rest? It's so hot and I'm dying of thirst.'
'Five more minutes and I promise a respite.'
'Very well.' They played statues some more, Columbine whispering out the side of her mouth, much to the amusement of her companion.
'Look at his breeches ... how they fit. Was there ever a man with so shapely a leg? Think of that body, Fran. That lovely slim body so warm and muscled. Think of that naughty thing in his breeches, all big and fat and long. All hot and eager, all -'
'Stop it,' giggled Frances. 'You're making me wet.'
'Me too. I'd love him to diddle me. Right here, right now, on the grass. I ain't fussed about being in no bed. Ooh, just think of his thing a-slipping up your cranny. Yum!'
Frances exploded with laughter.
Mr Foxe straightened, frowning. 'Ladies, please. You promised me five minutes.'
'It's difficult sometimes,' explained Columbine. 'Especially when we're so close to you, Mister Foxe.'
He cocked an eyebrow. Was that little minx attempting to flirt? The thought made him a little uncomfortable. They - especially Miss Frances - seemed so innocent. Flirting was out of place.
'Remember yourself, Columbine,' he reminded her, with almost paternal sternness. Perhaps he should have a word with Lady Catherine about the dubious choice of maid selected for Miss Frances. If she remained under

the influence of Columbine for too much longer might she not be lead astray?
No, it was none of his business. The girl's morals were certainly not his problem. But she was so sweet and young, so ... 'desirable' came to mind but he brushed it away guiltily. Naive. Yes, that was the word he'd been searching for. That was how he saw her. But even as he thought it, it didn't entirely ring true somehow.
He paused in his painting and scrutinising them both more critically than ever before. Were they the sweet, adorable virgins he had labelled them in his mind? They both smiled dazzingly.
'Alright,' he said, taking pity on them at last, 'you can take a break.'
They jumped up immediately, glad to be off the hard garden seat, rubbing their numbed backsides through their clothing. They drank fruit juice and cordial from flasks in the hamper, selecting such tasty titbits as quail cups and salmon pastries, then strolled off, eating as they went.
Joshua painted on, forgetting all about them, concentrating on the light through the tree, the way it highlighted the tree trunk on one side whilst turning the other the darkest umber. Eventually he decided they'd been gone long enough. He must make the most of the light. He set out with long strides, in search of them.
He found them at Sir Horace's fanciful interpretation of the Temple of Venus on the rise overlooking the lake. They were lying out on stone benches amidst a circle of classical columns topped with a domed roof. The sun shone between the columns, bathing the reclining girls with broad beams of light.
'Here you are,' he said impatiently. 'Come on, ladies. Hurry up. The light won't last for ever.'
'We don't want to pose any more today,' said Frances, turning her head to him. She was flat on her back, her knees bent beneath her skirts.
'Not insubordination, surely?' said Joshua, laughing, though inwardly he was more than a little annoyed.

'We want to stay here and laze' said Columbine.
'Be naughty ... with you' added Frances.
He blinked. 'Young ladies, please. I beg you, enough of this banter. Come back to the park and let us concentrate on the job in hand. The portrait is tantalisingly close to completion.'
'We'd rather concentrate on more earthly pursuits, sir' said Frances, demurely.
'I am shocked by your attitude, Miss Balfour. I had thought you a charming innocent, a cut above your brother and sister.'
She laughed. 'Mister Foxe, we have shocked you. Oh how delightful. But no, I am no different from they. Only more subtle. I know how to act the innocent and the lady even if I am not. I have perfected it. One day, you see, not too far into the future, I intend leaving here and taking up the life of an actress. It is my sole ambition in life. No one knows, save for dear Columbine, who will be accompanying me as my dresser. I await only my eighteenth birthday when I shall receive a legacy from my grandfather's will. Thereafter I shall be an independent woman of modest means and great ambition.'
As she was speaking she had slid around on the stone bench, then she stood up, coming brightly towards him. Columbine mirrored her actions from the other side, so that they homed in on Foxe as a pair, their grins wide and their eyes wickedly sparkling.
Good God. He felt such an idiot. How he'd been duped. He'd been so damned charmed by her innocence he'd half-fancied himself falling in love with her. He threw back his head and laughed and laughed. The joke was on him but he didn't mind. He was impressed. Frances should go far. What an actress!
They were close now, sandwiching him. Their hands were all over him, pressing on his shoulders, urging him to the floor. His frame bent and descended.
They undid the remaining buttons on his fine lawn shirt, tugged down his breeches and began kissing him all over, greedily and excitedly. Columbine almost

snatched at his rousing penis in her eagerness, caressing it with her hands and mouth.
They were ravishers. He was merely required to stay hard and do as they wanted. He gave in graciously.
Breasts spilled into his face; he tweaked and sucked. Legs straddled his face, and skirts were lifted to expose a wide open sex. He raised his head and paid court with his tongue, flickering and whipping, probing and darting.
Intricate pinkness bombarded his vision. All Frances's secrets were laid before him, glaringly close, tasting like the sea. He brought her to a shuddering climax. She squeezed her thighs about his head, arched her body and threw back her head, crying out in gasps, her puss pulsing in beautiful surges of delight.
She rolled off him, kissing him then, fencing with her tongue, her fingers playing with his ears.
Columbine meanwhile continued to work upon his rigid penis, playing and teasing, making his loins jerk involuntarily. She sat down between his legs, moving as close as she could with her legs up and over his thighs; resting them snugly alongside his torso, and moved the head of his manhood to her spot. With an artful movement she drew him in, moving closer then rubbing her sex against his and taking him inside her. She grasped his legs and he held hers, raising himself on his elbows so that he could watch her and their fused bodies as they rucked. They smiled at each other and they watched his phallus move in out of her succulent puss, hard and hot, liberally lubricated.
Frances lazed on her side between them, running a teasing finger and palm over the tinglingly sensitive parts where they were joined. She stroked Columbine's sex, pestering her agonised bud. She ran two fingers either side of the base of Joshua's manhood and stimulated him to something bordering dizziness, then she snaked a hand amongst their bodies and squeezed at his balls to prevent him coming.
Columbine was nearing her crisis; her body began

arching up and down, back and forth, her eyes opaque, her mouth open and moaning. Her movements became frantic. Joshua moved against her, as wayward now as she. Blind lust filled his head, and reaching his goal had become the most important thing in the world. With Frances stroking and squeezing at them again, intensifying an already flaming passion, they came yelling and laughing, their bodies beating bruisingly against each other.
They fell back, gasping as they pulled their bodies apart. They chuckled. It had been a delight.
Later, when all their clothing had been rearranged and their breathing was controlled and their heightened colour had started to recede, they strolled back to the oak tree so that Joshua could resume his painting.
'Did it bring back memories?' asked Columbine.
Joshua knit his brows. 'How do you mean?'
'Our little bit of fun at the temple, didn't it remind you of another time with two willing females?'
Frances was giggling.
Joshua was at a loss. 'No ... I don't think so.'
'Not even of Norah and Clara?'
He stopped dead in his tracks and shook his head incredulously. 'No. You don't mean you ... they ... No. They were laundrymaids.'
Frances was laughing uncontrollably now.
"They said they were laundrymaids' Columbine pointed out.
'Oh, Mister Foxe, your face is a picture. I should like to paint it. I am an actress, you know; playing a laundry-maid was not a very challenging role.'
Frankly he was amazed and couldn't even find his voice to say so.
The final portrait was now hung and his bags were packed. Foxe moved along the passage in the servants' domain, saying goodbye to cook and Grimes, plus a whole line of scullery, pantry and kitchen maids, and the lower ranks of the hall's army of lackeys.

Squires awaited him in the cart and with a few final kisses and waves, Joshua climbed aboard.
'Giddy-up' called Squires to his horse, with a click of his tongue and a flick of the reins.
The cart pulled away. Joshua waved to those standing around the kitchen door watching his departure and waving. He waved and shouted goodbyes until the cart had rounded the side of the hall, then he sat down quietly and just looked over the terraced facade for the last time, noticing that the chambermaids had already removed the mattress from his bed, and had hung it over the balustrade of the terrace to air.
At one window stood Frances and Columbine. They waved affectionately and blew Joshua enthusiastic kisses. He smiled fondly. Frances was patiently biding her time. But it wouldn't be too long before she came of age and received her inheritance. Then she could be independent and take off to London or Bristol hopefully to fulfil her dream of becoming an actress. He had no doubt that she would be a great success.
The cart started down the drive. He turned, looking over his shoulder at the porticoed front aspect, searching the tall sash windows of the upper floors but there was no sign of her. He was acutely disappointed.
She had not come to say goodbye personally. She had asked Horace to give him a bonus to show her appreciation for his having done such a fine job on the portraits; that had certainly put him in his place. He couldn't really blame her. Over the final weeks he really had neglected her, his work uppermost in his mind, his eye rather more taken with the disarming Frances that it should have been.
He craned his neck until they turned out through the gates at the bottom of the gravel drive and the hedgerow in the lane blocked his view. Then he looked ahead.
'Got t'you, did it?' observed Squires.
Joshua nodded grimly. 'Aye. The hall and other things.'
Squires chuckled. 'Poor devil. Where y'heading - back t'London?'

'I'm going north - to Northumberland. I shall take the coach to Gloucester and head up country from there. Coaches run every third day, so I've been informed.'
'Good luck t'you then, man.'
"Thank you, Squires' said Joshua wistfully, finding it impossible to feel optimistic despite the great opportunity ahead of him. He would be leaving far behind what was most important to him in the world.
She hadn't been able to face watching him go. She would have crumpled; made a complete fool of herself. Better to just hide away. Bury herself in her bedchamber and have a damned good cry.
At one o'clock in the afternoon Horace came knocking at her door. He rattled the handle, annoyed to find it locked. 'Catherine, what're you doing woman? Open up. It's me. I need to talk. I've been going through the books and our banking accounts and, frankly, things don't add up, not at all. The house is paid for, the bills are paid. Damn it all, even the servants have had a rise in their wages and yet still we're not in debt. There's something very wrong somewhere!'
Good God, he must be the only man alive who was up in arms because he was financially in the black!
Catherine came to the door but she wouldn't open it. 'Go away Horace. I'm not very well. I've taken a chill or something and I want to be left alone.'
'But I want you to look at the books. Perhaps you can fathom what's going on.'
'Tomorrow' she barked, then remembered herself and lowered her voice to a ladylike calm. T shall look at them tomorrow and see if I can't shed some light on things. But not now, I beg you.'.
'Oh very well' he muttered. 'Hope your health improves soon, m'dear.'
She heard him move off and went back to her bed, throwing herself down there for another good cry.

With his trunks and painting equipment safely stored at the inn in Munsey, Joshua had nothing to do but wait for the Gloucester coach. He lunched and quenched his thirst and thought a great deal about Catherine. He became progressively angrier as the afternoon wore on. She was a lady and she was married. But he was good enough for her and her marriage was a sham. He'd had plenty of time to observe that much. There wasn't even a modicum of real affection between them, let alone love. He could have made her happy. He could have provided for her. She could have done much worse.
So why hadn't he told her so? Why hadn't he declared himself? Bloody fool.
When the London to Gloucester coach pulled in to Munsey he did not board, telling the driver:
Take my belongings on ahead. Important business detains me here longer than anticipated. I shall catch tomorrow's coach.'
'As you wish, sir.'
He hired a horse and 'borrowed' a ladder from a cottage on the land leading to the hall, where a thatcher was renewing the roofing. When it was dark he tethered his mount in some shrubbery near the hall gates and started across the park towards the moonlit house. He avoided the gravel path because of the noise but then had to face the disagreeable hazard of sheep's droppings on the grass.
Voices in the long grass whispered. 'Did you hear something?'
'Yes, something was moving. Passing by.'
'Probably a sheep'
'Might be a fox.'
'Forget it. Come here you lovely wench and give your Horace a kiss.'
Lascivious giggling followed, then silence.
Joshua crept on, scanning the facade and trying to remember which window was Catherine's. He'd only

ever been to her bedchamber the once and he hadn't wasted time then on pinpointing his location.
Up above Catherine was moping about in true tragedian style, unable to sleep or find comfort. She'd let him go. She was a fool. She should have forgotten her pride and declared herself. If he'd laughed in her face it would have been painful and ghastly but at least she would have known where she stood in his affections. Now she'd never know. She'd let him go.
Round and around it all went in her head, the same arguments over and over, tormenting her. She got up, blew her nose and wiped her eyes, deciding to go to Horace's study and relieve him of another bottle of Genever. She'd vowed, after what had happened the last time, that she would never drink again. But this was an emergency. Somehow she had to blot Joshua out of her mind.
She had just reached the door, her hand poised on the china knob, when she heard the tap-tapping on her window. Her heart gave a fearful, surprised flip. Warily she moved very slowly in that direction, not knowing what to expect. The tap-tapping came again, harder now. She took hold of the curtain edges and pulled them back violently, crying out with fright at the face there.
Joshua was so startled by her sudden move that he shrieked too and wobbled precariously at the top of the ladder. In an instant Catherine had the window thrown up and was hugging him to her protectively, almost smotheringly.
She kissed him noisily all over his face. 'You've come back. Thank heavens. I shan't die of misery after all.'
'Come away with me now, tonight.'
'Yes, yes. I'll just get a few things.'
"There isn't time. I'll provide all you need. Come. Hurry. Just bring your cloak, my love.'
Tell me you love me and I'll do anything,' she bribed.
T worship you. Adore you. I can't face life without you. Now come. The sooner we're away the sooner I can prove just how much I love you, dearest Catherine.'

'Kiss me.'
'God' he cried in exasperation. 'I shall strangle you if you don't hurry and climb down this ladder.'
She climbed out immediately, giving shaky little moans of fear as she placed her feet upon the rungs, gripping tightly and descending with agonisingly painful slowness.
Joshua stayed close behind her, offering advice and encouragement so that she didn't lose her nerve and freeze. At the bottom she fell into his arms laughing with relief. Then he kissed her long and deeply, trembling with passion.
'This is madness,' she said, her voice filled with heady excitement. 'This is wonderful.'
He laughed and nodded, taking her by the hand and hurriedly leading the way back across the park. 'Come on. Henceforth it's just you and I for ever.'
The bodies in the grass were now indulging in such a frenzy of noisy writhing that they heard nothing as two figures moved past them in the darkness.
The black figure moved stealthily along the side of the building, the iron bar clasped tight to his chest. It was his intention to jemmy open a ground floor window and steal in. However, on rounding the corner, pressed close to the wall, he saw, of all things, a ladder.
Ralph couldn't believe his eyes. It reached up to his mother's room where the interior was softly candlelit. What was he to deduce from that? Either she had a visiting lover, or she was being burgled. Whatever, he was mighty curious and couldn't resist climbing to take a look. After all, if it was a burglar she might be in need of some assistance.
Quietly he climbed up, the iron bar reassuringly heavy in the pocket of his soiled and threadbare frock coat. He might need it as a weapon. He peeped over the sill, observing the room. It was empty. Puzzled, he climbed in and looked about. No signs of a struggle.
Perhaps she'd eloped. He sniggered at the ludicrous-

ness of the thought. But it did seem to be the only plausible explanation no matter how amazing. Well, if she had, good luck to her, he decided. He gave it a moment's thought, then gave up. He didn't have time to waste on such things. It didn't matter.
He'd come back to Munsey for reasons of his own. A bit of selective burglary. He was after some of the more portable items of silver, gilt and jewellery. There wouldn't be much in his mother's chambers. The bulk of their tangible wealth was stored in a strongroom off the library. Still, he looked around his mama's chamber, just in case something caught his eye. He opened the doors of the mahogany wardrobe and searched through her gowns. He drew out a Watteau gown of emerald tafetta. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen Catherine in it and decided that it was no longer a favourite and, therefore, she wouldn't miss it. He stuffed it into his sack. There was a certain young woman from the village who would appreciate it. He was meeting her at dawn, by the hill folly. It was all arranged. They were running away together, to start a new life in Bristol, Dulcie and he. She loved him and wanted him. Yes, finally she had admitted her feelings.
On Catherine's dressing table was a silver patch box and matching rouge pot. Into the sack they went. A pair of candlesticks followed.
He opened the door to her water closet and poked his head around the door. Nothing much in there. Then he took another look, opening the door fully to allow as much light in there as possible.
'Well, well, well' he tittered, hands on his hips, his gaze raised to the painting on the wall above Catherine's wig shelf. 'Good God, mother!' Now he had a pretty good idea - if she had eloped - who she'd taken off with.
He stared at the painting with amazement, not quite able to reconcile this exotic and erotic woman with the mother he had known.
'Staggering!' he exclaimed, taking a closer look and almost blushing. It didn't seem quite right to look at his

mama like that but, well, it was pretty damned compulsive stuff.
He almost had to shake himself, to remind himself why he was here. He mustn't allow himself to be sidetracked. He had keys to locate and a strongroom to rifle. He closed the door but he couldn't put the painting from his mind.
'In heaven's name, what's all that banging about?' grumbled Sir Horace, thrashing about in his bed and getting progressively more tangled in his nightshirt. 'Who's there?'
"Tis I, sir. Grimes,' said the butler. 'May I come in? There have been several serious developments at the hall during the course of the night. You really need to be fully appraised immediately, sir.'
'What?' squawked Horace groggily, finding it difficult to open his eyes. 'Gad, what time is it? I don't want to be bothered with silly domestic crises. That's Lady Catherine's department.'
'It's fifteen minutes past the hour of eight, sir.'
'What! And you've woken me up at such an ungodly hour for stuff and nonsense?' bellowed Horace, throwing back his covers and flying out of bed. "This had better be worthy of such an interruption, Grimes, or you're out on your ear, man! Come in. Get me my dressing gown.'
Grimes trembled as he helped his master dress. Inside him was a terrible excitement. He dreaded what was to follow. And yet he was going to take great delight in it as well.
'Right, man,' snarled the jaded, tired Horace, red as thunder at being summoned from his bed so early, 'tell me what has happened.'
'Firstly, sir, you have been robbed,' said Grimes, simply.
Horace gaped at him. 'Robbed? What of? By whom? Burglars d'you mean?'
'A burglar, sir. Namely your son Ralph.'
There was a gasp of outrage from the father.

'I found a note from him fixed to the strongroom door, sir. It was very brief, and said, and I quote, "Father, am removing in lieu of my inheritance".'
'The impudent dog!' Horace spluttered.
'He has systematically gone through the contents of the strongroom and taken several smaller items: cutlery, plate and a great deal of your wife's jewellery.'
Horace sped out through the door. 'Let me see.' He was mortified and furious.
Grimes ran behind him, plucking at his sleeve and stalling him on the landing. "There is more, sir.'
'More?'
'It appears, sir, that your wife has run away.'
Horace laughed harshly. 'Don't be absurd.'
"This morning, sir, one of the gardeners found a ladder propped up to her window whilst he was watering the urns on the terrace. The maid has confirmed that Lady Catherine's bed was not slept in.'
Horace shook his head. 'No, that's nonsense. Who'd she run away with, for heaven's sake? Where'd she go? Don't be preposterous, man.'
'Well, sir,' said Grimes with great dignity, 'you may not think me quite so preposterous when you see what has happened to her painting on the staircase.'
'That been stolen too?' snarled Horace, heading quickly in that very direction.
'No, sir. Rather it's undergone a drastic transformation.'
At the head of the stairs Horace looked down, his eyes darting to Catherine's painting, expecting the lady in black velvet. Instead he found a wanton-looking, exotic creature in filmy scraps of turquoise gossamer gauze.
Unlike his son, who merely thought the portrait staggering, Sir Horace, quite literally staggered on his feet, all the colour draining from his face. He opened his mouth to speak but for some reason nothing would come out.
Grimes had to fight to control his facial muscles. They kept wanting to lift in a smile.

F-F-Foxe!' spluttered Horace.
'Apparently so, sir. And aptly named one can't help thinking. Such wily creatures. Run off with the head hen from this particular coop by the looks of things. Stolen her away right from under the old rooster's nose.'
Horace could only glare, one eye twitching uncontrollably. Temporarily he was so taken aback his brain had quite forgotten how to be hopping mad.
Grimes took the opportunity to slip off down the stairs.

B   L   A   C    K
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